No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber
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Sam was grateful to Walt for hiring him without asking endless questions about his past. He didn’t understand what had prompted the old man to bail him out. All the rancher cared about was Sam’s skill in running the ranch, and once assured he knew his way around a herd, Walt had offered him the job.
Unless someone else had told him, Walt didn’t know Sam had served a two-year sentence in a Washington-state prison. Sam didn’t figure it was relevant; besides, being an ex-con wasn’t something he was proud of. And it wasn’t something he liked to talk about.
Sam still wondered why this sick old man had trusted him. It’d been a long time since anyone had willingly placed faith in him. That was why Sam had stayed, why he’d worked himself to the point of exhaustion, month after month. Sam would rather have died than disappoint Walt Wheaton.
It’d been a long time, too, since he’d allowed himself to care about anyone. Feelings were a luxury a man on the move couldn’t afford. They’d always made Sam uncomfortable, for more reasons than he wanted to examine.
Over the weeks and months he’d worked the Broken Arrow, he’d become fond of the crotchety old man. On some level they’d connected. He owed Walt, in a way he’d never owed anyone before. He also saw Walt’s despair over the deterioration of his ranch, and he was determined to salvage as much as he could. In an effort to prove himself worthy of Walt’s faith, Sam had struggled to build up the herd. He’d ridden the land so often he was familiar with damn near every square inch of it.
And he’d made a mistake. A big mistake. He’d started to dream.
Once in a while he’d find an excuse to ride up to the crest of the hill that overlooked the valley and dream that this land was his.
He supposed it was because he carried the sole responsibility for this ranch now. He’d started to feel he belonged here. And that was dangerous.
At night, it had become his habit to walk among the outbuildings and check everything one last time before he turned in. All too often his thoughts grew fanciful and he’d pretend that inside the house a woman was waiting for him. His wife. He’d pretend that his children slept upstairs, tucked securely in their beds, loved beyond measure.
It was never meant to be. When Walt died, the Broken Arrow would pass to Molly and her two boys. Then she’d find herself a new husband, who’d send him on his way.
He grimaced. His dreams were downright laughable, and the sooner he put them out of his mind, the easier it would be to pack his bags and move on. With this experience under his belt, he’d apply elsewhere and await the replies. No point in lingering when he could read the writing on the wall. He’d be out of a job by the end of the year.
All of a sudden Sam realized he was no longer alone. He turned and found Tom, the older of Molly’s two sons, standing just inside the barn. The boy looked hesitant, glancing about as if he wasn’t sure he should be there.
“Do you need something?” Sam asked gruffly, sounding more unfriendly than he’d intended. Actually he liked Tom. The boy reminded him a little of what he’d been like at that age.
“No. I...thought I’d feed the horses.”
Sam noticed the boy had one hand behind his back. “And what do you think you’ll feed them?”
Tom brought his arm forward and revealed a handful of carrots.
“Have you been around horses much?”
Tom shook his head.
“Then let me give you a few guidelines.” The last thing the old man needed was the shock of having one of his great-grandkids bitten by a horse. Or kicked in the gut.
Hearing voices, Sinbad arched his sleek black neck over the edge of the stall. The gelding was friendly, just right for a boy about Tom’s age. Gus, Walt’s Morgan horse, wasn’t opposed to a bit of attention himself, but Sam would rather steer the kid toward the more reliable Sinbad.
“You like to ride?” Sam asked, while he showed Tom the proper way to hold a carrot without risking the loss of a couple of fingers.
“I never have,” the boy admitted.
“You’re going to have to learn, then, aren’t you?” If his mother decided to keep the ranch, Tom would probably be riding the herd himself, taking on some serious responsibilities.
“I’d like to know how to ride.” Tom shot a look at Sam, as if to suggest he’d need someone to teach him, and Sam was the obvious choice.
“You feel you’re man enough?” Sam asked bluntly.
“Yes.” The boy’s voice sounded confident.
Sam grinned. “That’s what I thought.” Opening the bottom half of Sinbad’s stall door, Sam grasped the horse’s halter and led him out. “He’s about fifteen hands high,” Sam explained, running his palm down the gelding’s neck. “Which means you’ll be about four feet off the ground.” He glanced at the boy to gauge his interest. “I gotta tell you, the air’s just a little bit sweeter when you’re sitting tall in the saddle.”
Tom’s grin stretched all the way across his face.
“I always feel everything in life is much clearer when I’m on a horse. There’s a good feeling in my gut. When I’m riding, I’m happy and it’s the type of happiness I’ve never found anywhere else.”
Tom was mesmerized and, with such a willing audience, Sam could have talked all night. Riding was more than just a means of getting from one place to another. It involved a relationship with another creature. You depended on your horse; you and your horse had to trust and respect each other. This inner wisdom was as important as any technique Sam could share with the boy.
“If you ask me, spring’s about the best time of year for riding. Especially after a downpour, when the wind’s in your face and the scent of sweetgrass floats up to meet you. It’s even better when you’re riding a horse with heart.” Nothing was more exhilarating than a smooth steady gallop across acres of grassland. But it was the silence Sam loved best, a silence broken only by the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
“Sinbad’s a working horse,” Sam went on to say, in case Tom believed that any one of these animals was bred for fun and games. Gramps and Sam shared the same opinion when it came to animals. They worked for their keep. The dogs, too. Gramps might have given them cutesy names, but every last one of them worked as long and hard as he did himself.
“What do you mean by ‘working horse’?”
The question was sincere and Sam answered it the same way. “He’s a cow pony. He’s been cutting cows, trailing cattle and rounding up steers all his life. A cowboy is only as good as his horse, and Sinbad’s a damn good horse.”
Tom tentatively raised his hand to the gelding’s neck. Sam could tell he didn’t want to show he was intimidated by the large animal. He didn’t blame the kid for feeling a bit scared. In an effort to put him at ease, distract him from his nervousness, Sam continued to speak.
“Sinbad’s a quarter horse, which is an American breed. All that means is they were used at one time to compete in quarter-mile races. Far as I’m concerned, a quarter horse is the perfect horse for ranch work.”
Tom’s interest sharpened and he moved closer. His stroking of the horse’s neck was more confident now, and it seemed he’d forgotten his fears. “Is that one a quarter horse?” the boy asked, looking at Gus, who’d stuck his head over the stall door.
“Gus is a Morgan,” Sam explained. “It’s an excellent breed, as well, especially for a ranch. They can outwalk or outrun every other kind of horse around. Did you know that the only survivor of the Battle of the Little Big Horn was a Morgan? Go ahead and touch him. He’s pretty gentle.”
“Hi, Gus,” Tom said. He smiled broadly and walked over to rub the Morgan’s velvety nose.
“When