Part 2
“He’s spoken for,” Evan said. “I’m keeping him for a friend.”
The lie came easily enough. Holding Dale’s gaze was harder, especially when the man let his rope fall against the saddle and turned his horse toward Evan.
“Then your friend can come collect him from Wade.”
“Nobody’s taking him.” Evan kept the rifle raised, though his hands had started to shake. Behind Dale, Atlas swung his head toward the filly’s frightened calls, and the nearest rider gave him another yard.
Dale studied the small space between the horses and the cabin. Whatever he had expected to find, it hadn’t been an employee willing to aim a gun at him. He drew back, motioned to the others, and rode out with his rope still dragging through the dust.
“You get to explain this yourself,” he called.
Evan waited until they were beyond the ridge before lowering the rifle. Then he dismounted and put both hands against his gelding’s neck, trying to steady them. Atlas came close enough to smell his sleeve, but Evan couldn’t yet bear to look at him.
The tarp was ruined. Evan stamped out its last smoking edge and gathered the filly’s supplies, his blankets, and the few things in the cabin that belonged to him. He left the fence tools where they were; Kessler had paid for those.
Ruth Harlan’s place lay beyond the broken country east of the ranch. Kessler had been trying to buy her out for years, which was the only recommendation Evan could think of. He loaded his own gelding, took the filly’s lead, and started before Dale could return.
They traveled slowly for two days, keeping away from the roads. The filly could walk, but Evan stopped whenever her short steps began to drag, warmed her feeds, and let her rest against Atlas. His own horse carried the supplies; Evan walked beside the little one, watching the place on her flank Claire had been treating.
Atlas picked his way through shale that slid under Evan’s boots. At the worst crossings Evan went first, tested the ground, and brought the filly after him. By the time they reached Ruth’s fence, his heels were raw and he was rehearsing a request he expected her to refuse.
She was pulling weeds beside her house. She looked at Evan, the packed gelding, and the immense red horse, then wiped her hands on her apron.
“How far behind you is Wade?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least you didn’t start with a lie.”
He told her about the foal, the ropes, and the rifle. Ruth listened without interrupting, except to make him repeat what Dale had said about ownership. When he finished, she walked past him to Atlas.
The horse lowered his nose to her hand. Ruth rubbed the scarred skin above his nostrils, and something in her face altered in a way Evan couldn’t read.
“Old blood,” she said. “I haven’t seen a head like that in years. Never on one this size.”
“You know what he is?”
“I know what he reminds me of.” She kept her palm against his nose. “That’s different.”
Evan waited while Atlas breathed over her wrist. Beyond the house stood a weathered barn with doors tall enough to admit him, a detail Evan had been afraid to hope for. The road ran above a steep cutbank; a level stock path skirted the grove to the lower meadow.
“Can we stay?”
Ruth looked toward the road. “Wade’s wanted this acreage long enough. You could give him a reason to stop asking nicely.”
“I’ll work. Whatever needs doing.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know.” Evan swallowed. “But I can’t hand them over.”
She studied him a moment longer, then pointed at the barn. “Start with fresh bedding. There’s water behind it.”
For the next few weeks he paid for shelter in work. Ruth found jobs before he finished the last ones, but she worked beside him when she could and never waited until something was done to explain how she had wanted it. Evan learned to leave his cup on the porch rail; she would fill it without asking whether he had earned a break.
Claire came when her rounds brought her east. The filly’s wound closed, though a puckered patch remained, and her legs grew reliable enough to carry her in short, foolish bursts around the small paddock. Atlas watched her run and occasionally took a few strides after her, stopping when the fence stopped him.
Evan spent time with him after chores. He could touch his ears now, lift a foot, and ask him to step back without being crowded into the boards. Yet when Evan went to shut the paddock gate, Atlas often stayed beside it, looking out across Ruth’s pasture.
One evening Ruth gave Evan a bowl of apples and a knife. They sat on the porch cutting away bruises while the horses grazed beyond the garden.
“You watch that gate more than he does,” she said.
“Somebody has to.”
“I didn’t say open it. But a horse like that needs something to do besides wait for you to be frightened.”
Evan cut too deeply into an apple and put the good piece with the scraps. “He carried her here. Isn’t that enough work?”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s used to more.” Ruth tipped his good piece back into the bowl. “I’m talking about him. You keep answering for Wade.”
That night Evan stayed in the paddock after feeding. Atlas nosed the empty bucket, then stood beside him with his shoulder against the rail. Evan left his hand in the rough mane until Ruth called him in.
The late spring storm reached them two evenings later. Rain drove beneath the porch roof, and water began moving through the dry wash below the pasture before Evan heard the thunder directly overhead. Ruth came out holding a flashlight and pointed toward her neighbor’s fence.
Nora Bell’s cattle had broken through. They were running downhill, packed too tightly for the leaders to turn easily, and the wash below them had become a brown current carrying whole branches.
Evan snatched his gelding’s bridle from its peg. Before he could turn toward the stall, Atlas pushed through the open barn doors and swung toward the sound of the cattle.
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