Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“Spent most of my life in one. Before being drafted, cowboying was all I ever did. I mustered out of the army a month ago in Norfolk, Virginia. I’ve been working my way back up to the Panhandle. The Hobson ranch?”

He posed it as a question to which Barker shook his head. “Don’t know it.”

“South of Amarillo, along the Palo Duro. I started working for Mr. Hobson when I was eleven years old. I’m handy with horses.”

“That may be,” Barker said, still looking unconvinced. “But I ain’t hiring.”

Thatcher glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the garage before coming back around. “Looks to me like you’ve got more than you can handle on the automotive side of your business. For the next few weeks, I could relieve you of stable chores, free up you and your son to do the other work.”

“That nitwit ain’t my son. I’m the son. My daddy had a smithy and stables at this location for forty years. Henry Ford changed that. I had to adapt or starve.”

Thatcher had figured such was the case. “How many horses are you stabling?”

“Currently six. Plus four of my own that I rent out. And one ill-tempered sumbitch that a fellow left here for me to break.”

“Yeah? How’s that coming?”

Barker shifted his chaw and spat into the dirt.

Thatcher smiled. “That ill-tempered, huh?”

“High-steppin’ stallion. Owner won’t hear of gelding him yet.”

“Let me take a look at him.”

“What for?”

“Why not?”

Barker thought it over, then said, “What the hell? I’s tired of working on that clutch, anyway.” He kicked the front tire of the milk truck as he walked around the hood. “Come on.”

Thatcher followed him around the far side of the large stable to a corral of respectable size, but confining to the bay stallion who was running along the encircling fence, making abrupt directional changes, bucking occasionally, demonstrating his anger and frustration over being penned. When he sensed them coming toward the corral, he pinned back his ears, and his nostrils flared.

“I had to put him out here. He kept the other horses stirred up. Especially the mares.”

Thatcher chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. He’s a handsome devil, and he knows it.”

He was a large horse, sixteen hands, perfectly formed. He had the classic black points and a deep red coat that would gleam if he were groomed. Thatcher propped his arms on the top fence rail and watched the stallion strut, tail high.

“Does the owner want him trained to race?”

“To ride,” Baker said, adding dryly, “for longer than three seconds at a time.”

Thatcher smiled at the quip. “Does he have a name?”

“Ulysses.”

“I’d be throwing my owner, too.” Thatcher shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the fence rail. “How does a dollar and a half a day sound, Mr. Barker?

“Hold it. What are you doing?”

The stallion was snorting and eyeballing Thatcher as he unlatched the gate, slipped through it, and closed it behind himself. The horse didn’t like any of it. He became even more agitated, picking up speed on his next go-around of the corral and coming dangerously close to Thatcher who stood stock-still.

Barker said, “Get out of there. You ain’t even dressed for this.”

“I had to leave my gear behind when I went into the army. But he doesn’t know city shoes from boots.”

“At least take this rope.” Barker lifted a coiled lariat off the top of a fence post.

“Not for our first meeting.”

“That bastard’ll kick you into next week.”

“I’m mindful that he’d like to. But he also wants to know what I’m up to.”

“I want to know what you’re up to.”

“Earning my buck fifty.” Thatcher calmly walked to the center of the corral.

“I haven’t agreed—”

Thatcher said, “Mr. Barker, I don’t want him to see me as a threat, but I do want his undivided attention, and, no offense, you’re a distraction. If you could back up a little, please.”

Thatcher heard Barker spit another wad of tobacco into the ground before muttering, “Your funeral.”

There was a lot to be learned about the horse just from watching how he maneuvered. Thatcher faked indifference, but, without appearing to, he studied the stallion’s movements as he cantered along the fence, tossing his head, whinnying, stamping, making sudden shifts in direction, asserting himself.

After several minutes, Thatcher spoke softly, “Won’t do you any good to keep that up. You’ll wear yourself out before I leave this corral.”

He partially turned his back to the animal, remaining very aware of where he was, but intentionally keeping his head turned away from him as though uninterested in his arrogant posturing.

“See, I’m not scared of you. And you don’t have to be scared of me.”

It didn’t take long. The horse slowed his gait and eventually came to a standstill. He stomped a couple of times, then turned toward the center of the corral to face Thatcher. “Well, are we going to be friends?” Thatcher made a nicking sound. Not yet ready to concede, the stallion shook his head.