“I’ll get somebody to put your horse away and take your gear to the bunkhouse,” Hollister said. “You can start anytime.”
“I’ll start now,” Joe said.
* * *
For the first few days, Joe did little more than stand outside the corral fence, watching the stallion, talking and singing to him. The horse was a splendid animal, elegant of line and proportion, as if he might have some Arabian blood in his ancestry. Joe and Hollister had agreed that he shouldn’t be gelded, even though it might calm him. He might never be gentle enough to ride safely. But as a stud, bred to the right mares, such a horse could produce a line of great foals.
The stallion viewed Joe, and every other human, as an enemy. The deep rope burn around his neck and other marks on his body were enough to explain the reason why. When he felt threatened, he would charge the fence, snorting and shrieking. When this happened, Joe would remain calm and in place, still singing. After many attempts to drive the hated man away, the stallion began to accept his presence. It was a first step. But winning this abused horse’s trust, if it could be done at all, was going to take time.
“Why do you sing to him?” Amelia had come up to the fence to stand beside Joe. Joe let her stay. This wasn’t the first time she’d shown up. He was still a little worried about her father, but he enjoyed her company. She was as friendly and curious as she was pretty.
“It’s not just for him,” Joe said, thinking it might be time for a break. “I sing to keep myself calm. If I feel any fear, the horse will know, and he’ll try to take advantage. Horses aren’t just big, dumb brutes. They’re smart—smarter than we are in some ways.”
She gave him a dimpled smile. “You’re an interesting man, Joe Dollarhide. I’ve never met anybody quite like you.”
“I’m just a trail bum with dirt behind my ears. And I’ve got a feeling your dad wouldn’t like it if he knew you were spending time out here with me.”
“My dad doesn’t care how I spend my time. He’s too busy taking care of his precious ranch and figuring out ways to make more money.”
“Where’s your mother?” Joe asked. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”
“No, it’s all right. My mother—Evelyn, as she likes me to call her—is in St. Louis with her latest husband. My parents parted ways when I was still in diapers. My dad went off to make money, and I stayed with my mother and her parents.”
“But you’re here now. How long have you lived in Montana?”
“Only for a few months. It’s a long story. You don’t really want to hear it. Anyway, my dad hasn’t had much experience being a father. He pays more attention to his stupid old cows than he does to me.” Amelia brushed a speck of hay off her skirt. Every move she made was a study in prettiness, a graceful little gesture.
“Those stupid old cows, as you call them, are his livelihood. The money from selling them pays for the food you eat and the clothes you wear.”
They were strolling away from the horse pens now, in the direction of the barn and the house. She walked a little ahead of him, tossing her auburn curls as she spoke.
“But it’s so boring here, Joe—I may call you Joe, mayn’t I? Don’t you agree?”
“I’m never bored here. Most of the time I’m either working or eating or sleeping.”
“That may be fine for you,” she said. “But in St. Louis I could go shopping, or eat in a nice restaurant, or dress up and go to the theater at night. There’s nothing here. Daddy won’t even take me into Miles City or Deadwood.”
“Believe me, Amelia, you don’t want to go to those cow towns. No lady is safe on the streets there. And there’s nothing to do unless you like to drink and gamble.”
“I could always learn to drink and gamble. Maybe I’d even be good at it—win me a pile of money.” She gave him a teasing look. “This morning I found something in the barn. Do you want me to show it to you?”
“Sure.” Maybe one of the long-legged dogs that hung around the ranch had had pups, Joe thought. Or maybe she’d found a nest of baby chicks in the straw.