Wild Horses On The Salt E-Book

Anne Montgomery

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Can Rebecca find hope in the wilds of the Arizona desert?

Escaping her abusive husband, Rebecca hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand - her aunt’s college roommate - gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor of the Sonoran Desert. Soon, she meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and the blacksmith, Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

After Becca's husband tracks her down, she has to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Leseprobe

Wild Horses on the Salt

Anne Montgomery

Copyright (C) 2020 Anne Montgomery

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Edited by Emily Fuggetta

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all survivors of domestic violence

“I have seen things so beautiful they have brought tears to my eyes. Yet none of them can match the gracefulness and beauty of a horse running free.” ~ Author Unknown

Wild Horses

Ancient horses roamed the Americas beside woolly mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, dire wolves, and other large mammals. Then, at the end of the Pleistocene era 12,000 years ago, the climate cooled and these creatures disappeared, the result of mass extinctions.

And yet, today, the horse survives. It was the land bridge between North America and Asia that spared the horse from being nothing but a fossil, a creature cast only in stone.

Horses crossed the land bridge into Asia, where ancient man domesticated the elegant beast 5,500 years ago on the grasslands of what would become Ukraine. It was not until 1493, when Christopher Columbus arrived in what is today the Virgin Islands, that horses again touched ground in the Americas. The progeny of these animals brought by European explorers escaped, bred, and ranged across the continent.

Though millions of wild horses once roamed free in the United States, today, approximately 82,000 remain. Because their ancestors were brought here by explorers, there are some who believe these animals are an invasive species, a creature that should be culled to safeguard native fauna, fragile grasslands, and riparian habitats. Others believe the wild horse should be defended, protected, and allowed to roam free.

The debate is ongoing.

Three Salt River Horses Shot, Foal Killed; MCSO Seeks Suspect BY RAY STERNPhoenix New Times

Authorities are asking for the public's help to find a suspect who shot three wild Salt River horses on Friday evening.

At least one of the horses, a foal, was killed, possibly with a shotgun. The other two horses are believed to be injured or dead.

At about 6 p.m. on Friday, a witness saw someone wearing black shorts and a dark-green shirt in an area known as Pirate's Island shooting at the horses. The area is off Bush Highway between a tubing business and Pebble Beach.

The wild horses of the Salt River live primarily in the Tonto National Forest near the convergence of the Verde and Salt rivers in the East Valley. In May, Governor Doug Ducey signed a bill into law that makes it a crime to harass, kill, or otherwise interfere with the horses.

“Witnesses saw one of the horses in the river down in the water thrashing about and witnessed two other horses get hit with rounds from a rifle or shotgun,” according to the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office.

After shooting at the horses, the suspect reportedly followed the animals as they fled. Investigators believe at least two other people were with the shooter at the time.

1

An unfamiliar place.

Becca blinked at the mid-morning sun that streamed through the room. She closed her eyes and opened them again. White-painted walls. Thick, unfinished beams crossed the ceiling. Where was she?

She longed for a drink of water and was surprised to see a bottle on the square-topped table beside the bed. She sat up, grimaced at the pain in her side, and hugged the blue-and-white patterned blanket to her chest, noting the string of horse figures that galloped along the edge. She reached for the bottle, popped the top, and gulped.

Then she remembered her aunt making the frantic phone call and paying for the plane ticket. The woman's tears as she placed a few folded bills in Becca's hand. The red-eye flight: four and a half hours in the darkened cabin and the rumbling white noise that purred her into a series of uncomfortable dreams. The bleary arrival at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, where a tall man wearing a tan cowboy hat held a piece of cardboard bearing her name in black marker.

She'd been surprised by the chill in the air as she was ushered to the front seat of a pickup. Wasn't this the desert? The place the TV weather folks always talked about when the temperature hovered near 110 degrees? She shivered, and the man turned up the heat.

Later, under a star-splashed sky, she mounted several steps.The man motioned for her to follow, so she trailed him across a pathway composed of smooth river rock embedded in cement. When they arrived at a small cabin, he removed his hat and held the door open. He smiled, nodded, and disappeared.

Becca studied the now bright room, which boasted an intricately designed Native American rug hugging a hardwood floor. A three-drawer pine dresser topped with a mirror rested between two large windows framed with white curtains. A radiator kicked on. Becca eased under the warm covers and quickly fell back to sleep.

A knock on the door.

“There's still some lunch left. If you're hungry, you'd better hurry.”

Becca curled into a ball beneath the soft cotton sheets and the horse-adorned bedspread. She didn't want to move, but then her stomach growled. How long had it been since she'd eaten?

She stretched, and her assorted injuries made her wince. She crawled from beneath the bedding, holding her side, surprised to see that she had fallen asleep in her clothes. Becca eyed the small garment bag that rested unopened on a chair in the corner. She needed to brush her teeth. She eased herself slowly off the bed. The bruises on her hip and shoulder were still fresh and achy. Becca didn't glance at the mirror as she crossed the room. She'd had a black eye before. Understood the rainbow transformation that would render the area purple, green, then a sickly yellowish-brown before the wound would finally disappear from her skin, but not from her soul.

Becca ran her fingers through her wavy hair, then opened the door.

“Hello, Becca.” Gabriella Strand was tall with streaks of gray in her dark hair that was cut short and looped behind her ears. She wore teardrop-shaped turquoise earrings set in silver, a black sweatshirt that boasted a herd of galloping horses, black jeans, and a pair of worn black cowboy boots.

If the woman standing before her was surprised by her appearance, she didn't show it. Becca turned her bruised eye away. “Ms. Strand.”

Gabriella laughed. “Oh, honey, no one has called me Ms. Strand in a very long time. It's Gaby. Didn't your aunt tell you?”

“Yes. I'm sorry. She did…Gaby.”

“No need to be sorry. Now, let's get you something to eat.”

Later, Becca stared at the empty plate before her. She'd devoured the ham, egg, and cheese scramble, four pieces of thick smoked bacon, a stack of fluffy pancakes smothered in real maple syrup, and a large pot of hot black tea.

Gaby sat and wrapped her large hands around a mug of strong hot coffee. The older woman gazed at Becca with dark eyes, her face etched with fine lines that indicated a lifetime spent outdoors in the Arizona sun.

Becca didn't know what to say to this woman who she knew only through stories told by her Aunt Ruthie. The two women had been college roommates, both history majors at Northern Arizona University. After graduation, a continent had come between them, with Ruthie moving back to New Jersey and Gaby remaining in her home state. But the two women never lost contact, had often visited over the years. When it became clear that Becca needed to leave, her aunt had insisted she would be safe with Gaby.

“You don't have to say anything.” Gaby smiled. “I left some towels in your room. You can shower or take a bath, if you'd like. Then, rest. We'll talk later.”

All Becca could do was nod.

2

“Sorry, I'm late. I had a visitor come in early in the morning. I wanted to be there when she woke up.”

“No worries, Gaby. We've had a lot of folks show up to help.” Beverly Winthrop, blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail, peered from behind dark designer sunglasses. She pointed a red-manicured fingernail at the rocky beach beneath her feet. “They found her right here, poor little thing. Someone shot her in the neck. Shotgun. She was already dead when we got here. She was only six months old.”

Gaby stared across the sparkling Salt River, splashes of light igniting as the water rolled over colorful river rocks. “No matter how many times I see this kind of animal cruelty, I just can't wrap my head around it, Bev.”

“Me either. But we have work to do. Two other horses were wounded and ran. A kayaker saw one down in the river, but the animal got up and bolted before anyone could get to it.” The executive director of the Salt River Wild Horse Volunteers tugged on the brim of her green cap, which bore the organization's logo: a brown horse with a white blaze rising up out of the water, pawing at the air.

“How long have they been searching?”

“First light.”

“I'll go set up the table. I've got sandwiches and hot coffee in the truck.” Gaby turned and headed back toward the pickup.

“You'll be the most popular person out here,” Bev called as Gaby mounted the knoll that led to the parking lot.

A short time later, Gaby was unloading another cooler of food from the back of her truck. A white SUV with a red-and-black logo depicting a happy-looking cow and the words River Rock Ranch emblazoned on its side pulled up and parked next to her vehicle.

“Hola, Noah!” Gaby raised one hand in greeting as a tall, dark-haired man descended from the truck.

“Sorry I didn't get here sooner. I had some work to do in Phoenix and couldn't get away until now.” Gold flecks sparkled in his light-brown eyes.

“No apologies needed, Noah! I live just a few miles away, and I didn't make it until about thirty minutes ago. Had a guest come in late.”

“I didn't know the inn was open.”

“Well, it's a long story.” Gaby nodded toward several people on the riverside. “Luckily, about twenty volunteers beat us here.”

“Good people.” Noah reached into the bed of Gaby's truck and hoisted a container filled with hot coffee.

As soon as they arranged the food on the table that Gaby had set up in a rocky area near a tall stand of bamboo-like plants called giant reed, volunteers almost miraculously appeared from the brush.

“I can smell that coffee from here!” An elderly bearded man smiled as he approached the table.

“Any sign of the injured horses, Bob?” Noah handed the man a cardboard cup filled with black coffee.

“Nothing.” Bob took the paper-wrapped sub sandwich Gaby proffered. “Maybe that means they weren't hurt too bad.”

“Here's hoping,” Noah said. “Condiments are at the end of the table.”

“This ain't my first rodeo.” Bob squinted. “I know where they are.”

“Yes, sir.” Noah grinned and tapped the brim of his brown Stetson.

A few hours later, when the sun had slipped behind the McDowell Mountains, not a sandwich remained, and the coffee containers had been drained dry. Gaby and Noah folded up the table.

“Just saw the last of the volunteers off,” Bev said. “Anything I can help you with?”

“We've got it.” Gaby hoisted her end of the table off the ground and helped Noah carry it up the hill. “Are we on call for tomorrow?”

Bev followed as they made their way to the parking area, the only sound the crunching of their boots on the rocky ground. “No. We found nothing. Maybe they're not badly injured. I'll post a notice on our website with the emergency number. Hopefully, someone will call if they see anything.”

“Any word from the sheriff's office?” Noah helped Gaby slide the table into her pickup.

Bev shook her head. “Nothing, except that description of the guy in the green shirt and black shorts. And the fact that there may have been two other idiots with him.”

“Are we thinking just typical dopes with guns who want to shoot something?” Noah lifted the tailgate of Gaby's 20-year-old truck, and the door latched with a clang. “Or something more politically motivated?”

“Who knows?” Bev waved one hand in the air. “Thanks for coming out.”

“See ya, Bev.” Gaby opened the driver-side door. “You didn't eat anything, Noah. You're welcome to stay for dinner.”

“I was hoping you'd ask.”

3

Becca collapsed following the steamy hot shower. When she finally awoke under the soft bedding in her room, the world had turned dark. And though she ate a huge lunch, the smell of smoking meat lured her from the bed.

She noticed a brown sweatshirt had been folded and placed on a chair by the door. It read Salt River Inn and featured a black horse with a wild mane and a white blaze on its forehead. She slipped the sweatshirt on. The mirror lured her, but again Becca declined to view the damage. It was easier that way.

Becca opened the door and was greeted by a night sky so dazzling with stars she paused and sucked in a breath. The sky had never appeared so dark and sparkly in New Jersey. With the brilliant lights of New York City and the area's almost 18 million people, light pollution blotted out all but the brightest of the heavenly bodies.

A bat swooped low and darted away. Becca watched the animal disappear into the night, then gazed back at the stars. It was then she realized almost half the sky was obscured. Something massive and dark blocked her view, a jagged demarcation etching the boundary where earth met sky.

The smell of smoking meat distracted her again. She walked up the rocky path to the front of the inn, noting the multi-colored river-rock border that reached from the walkway to the bottom of the inn's evenly spaced windows. Lightbulbs encased in what looked to be old-fashioned oil lamps cast a golden glow. A brown, battered screen door twanged on a screechy hinge and gave way to a solid inner door with six glass panes. Becca pushed the door open, and entered a foyer with a registration desk and small store. Display shelves featured silver and turquoise jewelry, earth-toned Native American pottery, and local photographs that had been turned into note cards.

Silverware clanged on a ceramic plate.

An entryway led to a massive, high-ceilinged room topped with dark beams. But it was the immense fireplace constructed of the ever-present river rock that made Becca pause. The chimney reached to the rafters, narrowing in its ascent. The heads of two antlered deer gazed with marble eyes. The fireplace was open on four sides so that anyone in the room could see the blaze from wherever they might be sitting. The river rocks, blackened by almost a hundred years of smoke and periodically buffed with boiled linseed oil, shone like polished obsidian.

Becca blinked, unaware that the room had gone quiet. She noticed an ancient upright piano—wood as dark as the fireplace rocks—with yellowed keys. A gold-framed oil landscape depicting jagged mountains and a wild river hung above on a rough-paneled wall. A tiny wooden stagecoach with a driver and horses and rolling wheels sat atop the piano, a homemade child's toy from another time. The instrument rested between two built-in bookshelves bearing an untidy collection of tomes and carvings of birds. One bright-red wooden cardinal stared from its perch.

“Becca.” Gaby approached, her face creased with concern.

“Oh.” Becca focused on the woman.

“How are you feeling? You slept a long time.” Gaby's silver earrings swung back and forth and sparkled in the smoky firelight.

“Jet lag,” Becca mumbled, before pasting on a smile. What was she doing here in this strange lodge in the middle of nowhere?

4

“Walt, can you put another plate together?”

“Sure. Coming right up.”

Becca turned toward the tall man who had driven her from the airport. He had a thick head of graying hair and light-blue eyes. His jeans and flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves were topped with a white apron. He flipped a blue dish towel over his shoulder and smiled as he moved, a slight hitch in his gait. Then he pushed through a set of swinging double doors and disappeared.

“Walt, he's, well…” Gaby thought for a moment. “He does just about everything around here. And this is Noah.”

Becca faced another tall man, this one smiled at her kindly, as well. He stood by a table, the remnants of what appeared to be cherry cobbler on the plate before him.

“Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand as he approached.

Here was another man in jeans and cowboy boots, but this one was much younger. Mid-thirties, perhaps. A hint of gray highlighted his dark hair, which was squashed down in certain spots from wearing a hat. He wore a black T-shirt and a grey zip-up that bore an Adidas emblem.

“Noah Tanner.” His hand was warm and calloused. He focused directly on Becca. Bright flecks of gold glittered in his eyes.

She couldn't resist the urge to turn her damaged face away. “Becca Quinn.” She pulled her hand from his and looked at the floor.

“Hope you're hungry,” Walt called as he pushed through the kitchen's double doors.

Becca was ushered to the table, where Noah pulled out a chair. Gaby produced utensils wrapped in a cloth napkin. Walt ceremoniously placed before her a massive platter of smoked beef ribs, crispy hand-cut fries, and a thick slab of warm cornbread under a slice of golden yellow butter. Becca was reminded of the everyone-moving-at-the same-time pit stops at a NASCAR race.

“We have three kinds of sauce. Hot, hotter, and hottest.” Walt waited for her decision.

“Just bring all three,” Gaby said as she lugged another chair to the table. “Do you want wine or beer?”

“Let me get that, Gaby.” Noah moved to her side.

“Don't treat me like I'm a weak old woman.” She stared at him.

“No, ma'am. Of course not!” Noah burst out laughing, and Gaby joined him.

Becca stared at her plate for a few moments, then reached for a napkin. She nibbled at the ribs, which were spiced and juicy, then took a bite of the hot cornbread and butter. She almost swooned as she lifted the napkin to her lips and wiped away the crumbs. “That's delicious.”

“Tell Walt.” Gaby nodded as he walked through the kitchen's double doors holding a small basket that held a collection of hot sauces.

“Tell Walt what?” He placed the container on the table.

“You made the bread?” Becca stared up at him.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” He smiled. “It's just cornbread. Not horribly difficult in the bread department. Hell, old cowboys used to make it in cast-iron skillets on the campfire.”

“I don't know any men who can cook.” Her stomach rumbled, and she lifted another rib.

“Well, now you do.” Walt sat and sipped a beer from the bottle.

Becca tucked into the meal and didn't notice Noah watching her intently.

5

Later that evening, the skunk rose from a hollow-log burrow beneath thick, browned bushes that had turned with the low nighttime temperatures. It didn't see well but required no visual cue to locate its target. The animal waddled along a line of mesquite trees that bordered a rocky stream, which sometimes provided a tasty crayfish or two, then cut across a small open field. A circle of rectangular white boxes stood in the center of the pasture.

The skunk hurried now, excited by the smell, its keen olfactory senses equal to its excellent hearing. A soft sound brought the animal to an abrupt halt. It sniffed at the air but didn't notice the twin green orbs glowing from beside one of the boxes. After a while, the skunk took a tentative step. Then another. She pointed her snout to the sky, from where her only true predator generally attacked, and listened for the whoosh of massive wings, a great horned owl that could easily carry her off.

Though the eyes in the darkness still watched, she sensed no danger and toddled up to the first apiary. The skunk used her strong claws to rake the box. Had it been summer, the guard bees would have been alerted immediately, a danger pheromone released, and she would have quickly been under attack. But it was winter in the desert, and though daytime temperatures might reach into the eighties, the area could be plunged into the thirties before dawn. The bees were groggy with cold.

To any other creature, the slow response of the insects would be a pleasant turn, but the skunk was hungry and impatient. She continued to scratch at the box, and when her claws found a weak spot she attacked more vigorously. Soon, bees trickled out of the hive, and she was ready. Using her paws, she scooped up the insects and devoured them several at a time. Though some of the angry bees attacked, her thick black and white fur protected her from most of their assaults, though occasionally, one might sting her nose. Still, the pain was worth the bounty.

The skunk pulled at the hole she'd created and, with much effort, dragged out the bottom drawer of the apiary. The compartment tilted and fell, its front edge thumping on the ground. Angry bees swarmed her now, but they couldn't prevent the skunk from getting what she wanted: the larvae resting in their tiny circular slots drew her, the golden honeycomb that nourished the young insects a mere afterthought, though the skunk was quite happy to eat that, as well. She sucked the baby bees from their waxy bassinets, then chewed and spit out the bits that were indigestible. All the while the insects continued their relentless but ineffectual attack.

Later, when the skunk had eaten all she could, she waddled toward the fence that enclosed the field. She knew where she was going. Had been there before. Again, the green eyes followed.

The orange tabby—a hefty cat with a massive head and an impressive set of whiskers—sat placidly beside the aluminum water dish that butted up against a fencepost. The cat licked one paw as the skunk approached.

Had a human been there to witness the interaction, they might have been surprised because the skunk trundled right up to the cat, and the two animals touched noses. Then, side by side, they drank from the dish, after which the two animals diligently groomed themselves. While this relationship was not necessarily the norm, the cat and the skunk had become acquainted when they were both young, and since they were linked quite closely on the evolutionary tree, they sensed no oddity in their relationship.

The fledgling beekeeper who thought the cat might deter the skunk from its night-time predations would have been amazed.

6

“Damn! Skunked again!” Noah grabbed his red Arizona Cardinals cap, slapped it against his leg, and eyed the orange cat that posed on a fencepost by the gate. “You're not being much help, Red.”

The cat reached both paws out, dug its nails into the cross beam, and stretched languorously. Then the feline walked over and head-butted Noah's hand. He rubbed the tabby on the rump.

“Looks like that skunk got you again.” Walt, tall and lean with dancing blue eyes and a quick smile, approached the gate and watched Noah from under a cowboy hat that had once been brown but which had been bleached to a dull tan by the Arizona sun.

“Didn't hear you coming.”

“That's because you're a city boy, Noah.” And so it began. The usual razzing the younger man incurred because he'd been raised in suburban Southern California.

Noah smiled, then gazed at the broken apiary and the bees wafting about as they attempted to repair their home.

“Did it get the queen?” Walt joined Noah and the two men approached the ring of stacked boxes. They moved slowly. Any quick movement would be enough to excite the bees, and neither was wearing protective clothing.

“I don't think so. But you're not here about the bees, Walt.” The cat twined its way between the two men and rubbed up against Noah's leg.

“The gate out front. I'm here to measure the opening and see what you have in mind.”

“Of course. I forgot.” Noah took another look at the apiary and shook his head. “Let's do that.”

Noah leaned up against the fender of his white SUV. He watched Walt, now hatless, work a thick metal measuring tape between the end posts of two stretches of fencing that were connected by a simple aluminum gate. Walt jotted some measurements with a nub of yellow pencil, then swung the gate open and pushed the door flush with the fence line. He eyed the opening from several angles.

“How high off the ground do you want it to be?” He kneeled and spread one large, scarred and callused hand up the fencepost, his thumb resting in the dirt.

“I don't know. You're the artist.” Noah grinned. “Michelangelo with metal.”

“I accept the compliment.” Walt stepped back ten paces. “One cow? One bull? A mother and a calf? A group?” He scratched his forehead. “I got it. How about a skunk and some bees?” Walt laughed.

“You're a funny man, my friend.” Noah pushed himself off the truck's fender. “Can you draw up some options?”

Walt nodded. “I can. Give me a few days.”

“Thank you, Walt. Now I've got to get back to my bees.”

The older man nodded and got into his truck.

Noah waved and watched him go. Walt's trajectory from cattle rancher and rodeo bronc rider to one of the best and most sought-after metal sculptors in the Southwest never failed to amaze him.

7

A short time later, the low desert was still chilly, the temperature in the high fifties, the sky a clear blue, dotted here and there with cottony clouds.

Noah donned his white suit and broad-brimmed hat with the mesh veil, protective gear necessary because the bees were especially agitated after their nocturnal visit from the skunk and because this particular apiary housed a hot colony, one whose queen was a bit too Africanized. The theory was that most bees in the Americas had now been touched by their African relatives, the fiercer strain that had escaped from a quarantine facility in Brazil in 1957. But some colonies seemed more affected than others. Often it was the queen herself—who could live three to four years and produce up to one thousand eggs a day—that spread the wild trait to her offspring. If the bees proved too ornery, sometimes the queen would be killed, a scenario many beekeepers abhorred.

While cleaning up the mess the skunk left behind, Noah considered his options in regard to the animal. He didn't have the heart to kill it, but not because he was what Walt would have called “a delicate city boy.” Noah just believed that when people lived near wildlife, land on which the animals had existed first, there should be some outcome in which both could reside together in some semblance of harmony. And, even in dire circumstances, he eschewed poison of any kind, fearing for unintended consequences in regard to other wildlife, as well as domestic animals.

Skunks, of course, were especially difficult. Animal-removal people were loath to capture them for the obvious reasons, and even if they did trap the creature, where would they release it? No one was standing in line saying, “Sure, leave that skunk near my property.” And while skunks were good candidates for relocation since they were not territorial, the Phoenix Metropolitan monster intruded daily with new housing developments and strip malls and schools, so capture and release could just result in the animal becoming someone else's dilemma.

Noah was not built that way. He'd always been a problem solver.

The cat purred loudly and rubbed against his leg. “Maybe we can get you skunk-attack training, Red.”

The animal meowed, plopped into the grass, and rolled on its back.

Noah proceeded slowly, picking up the larger pieces of the broken apiary and depositing them in a red wheelbarrow. He pulled out the remainder of the bottom drawer, and bits of wood mixed with messy globs of honey fell to the ground. Using a metal rake, he gently pulled the pile away from the rest of the hive. Bees buzzed and dove at him, the insects wee brains unable to determine that he wasn't the bad guy.

After Noah cleaned up the remnants of the skunk's attack, he stepped away from the hive and removed his protective hat and gloves. He considered the options he might take to thwart the animal.

“What do you think, Red?” The cat followed him to the fence line. “Maybe we could put some chain link around the hives. Dig it deep into the ground. Maybe a couple of feet, so the skunk can't burrow underneath.”

Red meowed.

“Not sure if they're good climbers or not.” Noah crouched and scratched Red between the ears. “Maybe we'll have to extend the fencing over the top, as well.”

Red meowed again.

8

A few days later, Becca cradled a mug of strong, hot coffee in her hands as she rocked in a padded, free-standing swing. The contrivance was mounted on thick railroad ties and situated on an oval of grass ringed by river rocks. The metal chain squeaked, though the sound was not unpleasant, especially since the quiet of this place, to a woman raised in New Jersey, was a bit unsettling.

While the air was cold, the sun shone brightly, and though it was winter, flowering trees spread their canopies over parts of the yard—snowy blooms that reminded Becca that anything white back home this time of year was actual snow. But while the trees were lovely, it was the mountains that made Becca hold her breath. The jagged peaks of the Goldfield Mountains cut the sky on the other side of the Lower Salt River, less than a mile away. A Sonoran Desert forest of towering saguaros and green-skinned paloverde provided the base from which the peaks sprang straight into the blue morning sky. A large bird circled above land that once lured miners with the promise of fortune, but which today attracted mostly hikers and horseback riders, and which was protected as part of the Tonto National Forest.

Becca inhaled the fragrant steam that wafted from the coffee—strong and sweet thanks to a large dollop of honey. Gaby had said something about the honey being local, but Becca had a hard time paying attention and couldn't remember the rest of the conversation.

When had this happened? This habit of letting her mind drift. Shutting herself off. Becca closed her eyes. She hadn't always been the woman she was now. Scattered bits of memory flashed. Her high-school valedictorian speech, proud parents puffed up with pride. An Ivy League college degree and law school. But those framed certificates now rested in a cardboard box in a shed at Ruthie's place; the accomplishments that had once meant so much had, over time, diminished in importance.

The red-tailed hawk disappeared into thick vegetation but rose quickly, some small mammal stilled in its beak. Becca watched the bird glide, languidly moving across the dark volcanic mountains before the creature vanished into the trees.

“Can I top you off?”

Becca jolted, spilling coffee on her pant leg.

Gaby frowned. “Sorry, hon. Didn't mean to sneak up on you. I'm on my way over to the forge. It's just down around the last cabin and through the mesquite stand.” She pointed toward the river.

Becca wiped at her jeans. “It's OK! Really! Not a problem!”

Gaby saw fear in the woman's eyes, then Becca glanced at the ground. A few moments of silence beat away, then Gaby held up a stainless-steel pot. “Coffee?”

Becca pursed her lips and held out her cup. “Sure. Thanks.”

Becca watched as Gaby walked the dirt path that stretched toward the river. The woman passed several cabins, which appeared identical to the one in which Becca was staying. Each of the small buildings had porches on which bent-twig rockers sat motionless. A line of potted red geraniums rested near the stairs of each cabin—their lush ball-shaped blooms lolling over dark green leaves—another reminder that winter in Arizona was nothing like the frigid dark season she'd grown up with in the east.

After chugging the last gulp of coffee, Becca rose and considered her options. She stared at the mountains and sucked in a breath. “What options, Becca?” She shook her head. The warm bed with soft covers beckoned like a lover. She longed to pull the blankets over her head, close her eyes, and snuggle into its soft embrace. She stared at the cabin door and took several steps in that direction. But then she stopped. Sleep had not solved her problems before and would probably not now.

Then she remembered that Gaby had said something about going to a forge. What had she said? Just beyond the last of the cabins? A short walk through some mesquite trees?

At that moment, a dog barked. Sitting on the dirt lane was a mixed-breed cattle dog. The animal barked again and ran toward Becca. The blue-eyed beast with mottled fur painted brown, black, and white, wagged a stubby tail. A pink tongue flopped from the side of its mouth, which made the dog appear to be smiling. It yipped again and trotted the path to the forge as if reading her mind.

9

Becca trailed the dog past the cabins to a spot where she could see the river as it curved around a bend and headed west. Dazzling flashes flared from the surface as the water skipped over worn stones and past the hulking remains of a once massive cottonwood tree that now splayed across the stream, its trunk bridging both rocky banks. Tall stands of what looked like bamboo shot straight up from the riverbed, thin green leaves waving in the breeze.

The dog barked.

“I'm coming.” Becca eyed the animal, which twisted and jumped as if launching itself with springs. She watched the dog trot along the path into a clump of trees.

A loud metallic sound made Becca pause. Then the noise came again. And again. She followed the sound into the mesquite stand and while some of the delicate gray-green leaves had dropped due to the cold winter nights, many others still clung to the thorny branches, filtering the light, throwing lacy patterns on the uneven ground.

The small thicket gave way to an open area that, at other times, would boast a riotous array of color, a green yard dotted with white and orange poppies, thrusting heads of purple lupine and stalks of golden globe mallow. But the wildflowers were dormant now, their flamboyance replaced by brown stems amid patches of muted grasses.

Becca walked past a massive sprawl of prickly pear and glimpsed a rabbit bounding among the thorny pads. Then she heard the sound again. One. Two. Three times the clang rang out. Becca focused on an old stone building with a high-pitched roof. Smoke rose from a chimney built from the same river rock evident in all the buildings she'd seen. Two sliding barn doors stood open, beckoning her inside. The dog barked and scampered through the entryway.

Becca followed the animal into the building.

“Oh!” Becca paused. She stared at Gaby, whose hand gently wiped at a smudge of blackened soot on Walt's cheek. Though Gaby was tall, at six-foot-three, Walt smiled down at her. “I'm so sorry!”

“Sorry for what?” Gaby dropped her hand.

“Welcome to the forge, Becca. Come on in.” Walt, a black bandana replacing his cowboy hat, waved her over.

Walt stood by a rust-colored anvil that perched atop a thick section of scarred and blackened tree trunk. The anvil, held secure with metal straps binding each footing to the wood, had rested in the same spot for over almost ninety years. A large post vise was positioned to the right of the anvil, jaws yawning open as if waiting to take a bite from anyone that might get too close. A dizzying array of tools spread around the room, some leaning against stone walls, while others hung on hooks of every shape, design, and size. Tongs, chisels, center punches, twisters, and hammers—ball-peen, cross-peen, and sledges of varying weights and shapes. There were grinding wheels and power tools, wire brushes and every possible grade of sandpaper. Cans of lacquers, varnishes, oils, and beeswax sat beside an assortment of glass jars filled with viscous-looking fluids varying in color: white, yellow, red, brown, black, and a few that were hard to define.

A soot-covered, thick-sided square rose from the floor, golden flames dancing within, smoke funneling up the chimney. Long, thin pieces of black metal with artistically twisted loop handles were wedged among glowing coals.

The entire backside of the forge was a long line of floor-to-ceiling sliding-glass doors, a modern-day adaptation through which sunlight drenched a drafting table that was covered with scattered drawings. A rusted tin can held a handful of yellow pencils.

Then Becca's mouth dropped open. A life-size metal stallion reared by the window, front legs pawing at the air, mane flowing as if the wind were blowing the metal strands. The animal, backed by the trees and mountains beyond, appeared poised to gallop away.

10

The horse pawed the blacktop.

The driver of the speeding sedan—head down, texting—did not see the animals that had come out of the brush and were crossing SR87, a road known locally as the Bush Highway. The stallion's reddish coat was dulled, since food was scarce, the result of an extended draught, but the animal's black mane, tail, and socks and his unusually tall stature made him an impressive creature, nonetheless.

“What the…?” The young businessman had seen the signs—both the free-standing ones and those painted on the tarmac—warning drivers to expect wild horses on the roadway, but he had ignored the alert. Like many people, he considered road signs just clutter, the admonitions for everyone else on the road, but not him.

Now he faced the prospect of plowing into six horses at high speed on the four-lane road, a twisting drive that, in some places, butted up against the Salt River. He mashed the brake and looked for a way out.

The stallion neighed loudly, a warning to his band to hurry. The six-month old foal, light tan with a white star on her forehead, paused and stared up the road. He neighed again and stomped his feet, urging the little one across. Only when the young one had stepped into the brush on the river side of the road did he move to follow.

But it was too late. The driver clipped the stallion's hip, then overcorrected, a maneuver that sent the vehicle off the road and into the brush where it barreled into the base of a thirty-foot, six-armed saguaro. Dazed, the man watched helplessly as the massive plant tottered and fell, 3,200 pounds of spiny cactus crushing his car.

The seatbelt had saved his life, but, as the ancient plant settled around him, the driver became imprisoned in the vehicle, great chunks of thorny cactus jamming the vehicle doors, the flattened roof trapping him low in the seat.

He panicked—the sickening fear of a claustrophobic—and reached for the door handle. The man pushed and screamed, but the plant pinned him in place.

He needed help. Where was the phone? Then he saw his mobile on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He stretched his arm, but the phone was just out of reach. It would be hours before the police arrived to pry him from the car.

On the other side of the road, five of the horses stood together watching the stallion. Blood ran from a foot-long gash in the animal's left hip. A flap of skin fell to the side, exposing bared muscle. The stallion shook its head and took a tentative step. Then another.

The horse limped slowly, leading the others along a thin trail of tan, sand-like dirt that wove between a stand of pungent low-growing creosote dotted here and there with prickly pear and the occasional ironwood tree.

The stallion stumbled down a rocky incline that lead to a gentle crossing, an easy ford even when the Salt ran high. Now, with the dam regulating the winter flow and only a few scattered storms over the last six months, the water barely edged up over the horses' hooves.

Despite the easy passage, the stallion staggered again, and this time he tumbled into the water. The horse thrashed and scrambled to his feet, sparkling water droplets flying from his coat.

As was their habit, the band paused, waiting for him to lead the way.

On a hill above, binoculars in hand, a birder watched.

11

“The horse is beautiful.” Becca touched the black metal that shone like leather.

“Walt's been working on that one a long time,” Gaby said, the pride obvious in her voice.

“It's almost done.” Walt placed a hand on the animal's cold neck.

Becca eyed the sculpture. “What's it made of?”

“Steel.” Walt peered closely at an imperfection only he could see.

“I thought steel was silver colored.” Becca tilted her head.

“It is before we pre-treat it,” Walt explained. “When you have a metal sculpture that's going to be outside in the elements, we pre-rust it, which allows a patina to form. Then we treat the metal with a mixture of things like linseed oil and turpentine. That's what makes it shine and look like leather.”

“Amazing!” Becca smiled at Walt.

Gaby grinned, since neither she nor Walt had seen the woman smile before.

Becca eyed a matching set of eight ornamental hooks, hand-forged, coal-colored pieces that twisted in an elongated S shape, each with a delicate decorative spiral on the end. She reached for one but held back and looked at Walt.

“Go ahead,” Walt said. “I made those for my favorite client.” He winked.

Becca grasp one of the strong, smooth hooks and ran a finger over the swirled shape.

“They're for me,” Gaby said. “But favorite customer or not, I had to stand in line. Now, I have to get him to hang them up.”

“All you have to do is ask…sweetly.” Walt kissed Gaby on the top of the head.

“Yes, dear.” Gabby batted her eyes.

“What are they for?” Becca replaced the hook on the table with the others.

“Did you see all those pots filled with geraniums in front of the cabins?”

Becca nodded.

“I want to put them in hanging baskets, and now I can.” Gaby patted Walt on the shoulder.

Becca inhaled the warm scent of the forge, a strange mixture of coal smoke, sweet beeswax, sawdust, coffee, and things she couldn't name. Then her eyes were drawn to a nearby wall where a dizzying array of hooks in myriad styles held a multitude of tools. “So many different kinds of hooks.”

Walt laughed. “That's because everyone starts out making hooks. I made my first hook when I was five.”

Becca stared at the hot coals and bright flames in the forge. “Your parents let you play with fire when you were five?”

“My father did. As I recall, we didn't tell my mom for a few years, though I'm guessing it wouldn't have surprised her, knowing my dad. He was a farrier, when he wasn't ranching cattle.”

Becca glanced at a horseshoe that was hammered in the U position above the double doors. “He took care of horses' feet?”

“He did. So, he was a bit of a blacksmith and a veterinarian, which made him pretty damn valuable on the ranch.”