Lillian appeared a moment later in a cream-colored shawl. She had clearly fixed her hair.
"Mr. Hail."
"Miss Hart."
Rachel almost laughed. Both sisters again. Lillian glanced at the book.
"What did you bring?"
"Stock manual."
Her smile faltered. "Oh."
Rachel tucked it beneath her arm. Matthew looked at her. "High Mesa has a young stallion I'd like your opinion on."
George brightened immediately. "Bring Lillian too. She hasn't been up there."
Matthew hesitated. Rachel saw it. So did Lillian.
"I was asking Rachel," he said.
The silence that followed was short. But not short enough. George coughed.
"Well. Of course."
Lillian's face remained composed. Rachel wished Matthew had lied. That would have been easier. He came for her the following Saturday.
The ride to High Mesa took more than an hour along a road that climbed steadily toward the foothills. Snow still clung in the shadows, but the south-facing slopes had begun showing brown grass. Rachel rode her father's sorrel mare. Matthew kept his horse half a length ahead on narrow stretches and dropped behind whenever the trail widened.
Not once did he tell her where to put her horse. Not once did he reach for her reins. Rachel noticed. High Mesa came into view beyond a stand of pine.
The ranch was larger than she had imagined. Long corral. A stone and timber house. Two barns.
A smokehouse. A bunkhouse with laundry frozen stiff on a line. Men moved between buildings carrying hay, repairing tack, hauling water. They looked up when Matthew rode in.
Several looked twice when they saw Rachel. Matthew acted as though nothing about her presence required explanation. "This way."
He led her toward the north corral. The stallion was black. Not pure black.
A brown sheen ran beneath the winter coat where the sun struck it. He was young, nervous, and built beautifully through the shoulder. Rachel leaned against the rail.
"Who's handled him?"
"Mostly Cole Jennings."
"Too fast."
Matthew looked at her. "You haven't seen Jennings work."
"I've seen the horse."
The stallion paced the fence. His ears flicked toward every movement. "He expects hands before they're on him."
Matthew watched. Rachel pointed. "See that?"
The horse flinched when one of the ranch hands moved behind him. Matthew nodded slowly. "You're right."
He opened the gate. Rachel straightened. "What are you doing?"
"Showing you something."
The stallion backed away. Matthew entered alone. He did not carry a rope. He did not corner the animal.
He stood near the gate and waited. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Rachel began feeling the cold through her gloves.
Matthew moved one step. The horse stopped pacing. Another step. Then Matthew waited again.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No display of strength. No clever trick. Just patience.
Eventually, the stallion lowered his head. Matthew extended one hand. The horse stretched forward and sniffed it. Rachel watched the enormous man stand absolutely still while the nervous colt decided for himself whether to come closer.
Twenty minutes after Matthew entered the corral, his hand rested lightly against the stallion's neck. Rachel realized she had been holding her breath. When he came back out, she said, "You could probably lift him."
"Not without hurting myself."
"You know what I mean."
Matthew latched the gate. "Strength's useful after patience fails."