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Authors: Laura Crum
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fifties with silver gray hair, bright blue eyes and a still-handsome face. He was riding a shiny gold, buckskin stud horse and talking with some men riding next to him; he looked an unlikely villain to me-in fact, he looked disarmingly unlike whatever I had supposed a hotshot national champion trainer to be.
"He's the big deal in the business?" I said curiously to Bret. "He just looks like another cowboy."
Bret smiled. "That's his style. He never goes in for a lot of fancy silver on his saddle, or fancy clothes. But he's a big deal, all right. He's won the West Coast Futurity four times in the last eight years. He's the name in the cutting horse business."
I studied Will George some more as he rode by us. You could see it, if you looked carefully. It was in the way his eyes surveyed the cutting calmly, as if the whole thing belonged to him, in the way the other men seemed to defer to him when he spoke. He was the king.
He was a good-looking old fart, too, I reflected. I wondered what kind of vibes would be in the air if he, Melissa and Casey all came face-to-face.
A youngish trainer with all the silver on his saddle Will George lacked reined a gray mare away from the group around Will and rode up to us. "Well, I'll be damned. Bret Boncantini. You here to ask for your job back?"
Bret grinned. "About the time hell freezes over, Jay."
The man who spoke was around Bret's age-late twenties-and had pale, almost colorless blond hair under his cowboy hat and light-colored eyes with an inner hardness at variance with the smile on his angular, fair-skinned face. Laughing, he spurred the gray mare hard in the belly and galloped off, war-whooping at a woman trying to control a fractious bay colt nearby. "Stay with him, honey, stay with him," he hollered.
"That's Jay Holley," Bret explained, "the guy I worked for in Salinas. Don't let him fool you with that goofball routine." He gestured at Jay, who was spurring the gray mare hard enough to cause her to hump her back and crowhop while he fanned her with his chaps, entertaining the crowd. "He's a tough hand, as good as they get. He likes to clown around-it's his routine-but he's dead serious about winning. He went to work for Will George when he was sixteen, started training on his own five years ago, and he's been doing real well. Will more or less sponsored him; everyone calls him Will's protege. He was a son of a bitch to work for, though."
"Why, he make you actually do something?"
Bret grinned. "Not when I could help it."
By the time we reached the trailer, Casey had already swung up on a little blue roan mare that I recognized as Shiloh, and I stopped to admire the picture they made.
Shiloh was a pretty horse, fine-boned and graceful with a dainty head, and her steely blue-gray color was complemented perfectly by Casey's black chaps and hat. He also wore a bright red shirt and a large glittering trophy buckle, and Shiloh's woven saddle blanket was in shades of gray and black with a red stripe running through it. Her saddle was decorated with a few small silver conchos-enough to look dressy, not flashy.
"Lookin' good." I smiled up at Casey. "We've come to watch you win."
"Hope to." Casey's expression was serious. "I damn sure hope to." His gaze drifted through the horses and riders, checking out his known rivals, sizing up the competition. "Better warm this mare up," he said abruptly, wheeling on the words and trotting away.
Bret's lips twitched as we watched him. "That god-damned Casey is such a go-getter." Bret sounded amused; being a go-getter had never been one of his failings.
Watching Casey lope Shiloh around the warm-up ring, I felt a faint anticipatory tingle in my stomach, a mere shadow, I realized, of what the riders on the cutting horses must be feeling. I wished suddenly that I were out there on Gunner, getting ready to show him in competition. Maybe someday, I told myself.
Casey's face was still, almost somber, under his black felt hat as he loped; his
"He's the big deal in the business?" I said curiously to Bret. "He just looks like another cowboy."
Bret smiled. "That's his style. He never goes in for a lot of fancy silver on his saddle, or fancy clothes. But he's a big deal, all right. He's won the West Coast Futurity four times in the last eight years. He's the name in the cutting horse business."
I studied Will George some more as he rode by us. You could see it, if you looked carefully. It was in the way his eyes surveyed the cutting calmly, as if the whole thing belonged to him, in the way the other men seemed to defer to him when he spoke. He was the king.
He was a good-looking old fart, too, I reflected. I wondered what kind of vibes would be in the air if he, Melissa and Casey all came face-to-face.
A youngish trainer with all the silver on his saddle Will George lacked reined a gray mare away from the group around Will and rode up to us. "Well, I'll be damned. Bret Boncantini. You here to ask for your job back?"
Bret grinned. "About the time hell freezes over, Jay."
The man who spoke was around Bret's age-late twenties-and had pale, almost colorless blond hair under his cowboy hat and light-colored eyes with an inner hardness at variance with the smile on his angular, fair-skinned face. Laughing, he spurred the gray mare hard in the belly and galloped off, war-whooping at a woman trying to control a fractious bay colt nearby. "Stay with him, honey, stay with him," he hollered.
"That's Jay Holley," Bret explained, "the guy I worked for in Salinas. Don't let him fool you with that goofball routine." He gestured at Jay, who was spurring the gray mare hard enough to cause her to hump her back and crowhop while he fanned her with his chaps, entertaining the crowd. "He's a tough hand, as good as they get. He likes to clown around-it's his routine-but he's dead serious about winning. He went to work for Will George when he was sixteen, started training on his own five years ago, and he's been doing real well. Will more or less sponsored him; everyone calls him Will's protege. He was a son of a bitch to work for, though."
"Why, he make you actually do something?"
Bret grinned. "Not when I could help it."
By the time we reached the trailer, Casey had already swung up on a little blue roan mare that I recognized as Shiloh, and I stopped to admire the picture they made.
Shiloh was a pretty horse, fine-boned and graceful with a dainty head, and her steely blue-gray color was complemented perfectly by Casey's black chaps and hat. He also wore a bright red shirt and a large glittering trophy buckle, and Shiloh's woven saddle blanket was in shades of gray and black with a red stripe running through it. Her saddle was decorated with a few small silver conchos-enough to look dressy, not flashy.
"Lookin' good." I smiled up at Casey. "We've come to watch you win."
"Hope to." Casey's expression was serious. "I damn sure hope to." His gaze drifted through the horses and riders, checking out his known rivals, sizing up the competition. "Better warm this mare up," he said abruptly, wheeling on the words and trotting away.
Bret's lips twitched as we watched him. "That god-damned Casey is such a go-getter." Bret sounded amused; being a go-getter had never been one of his failings.
Watching Casey lope Shiloh around the warm-up ring, I felt a faint anticipatory tingle in my stomach, a mere shadow, I realized, of what the riders on the cutting horses must be feeling. I wished suddenly that I were out there on Gunner, getting ready to show him in competition. Maybe someday, I told myself.
Casey's face was still, almost somber, under his black felt hat as he loped; his
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