• Leaning on the fence rail, she watched the horses carefully. Buckskins, bays, dapple grays, paints and pintos… Manes and tails in every conceivable color in horseflesh filled the arena. Hooves and teeth struck out at everything around them, desperate to take out their frustrations. They were in from the winter run, and boy were they feeling the warm weather! This was after hours in the pens, trying to calm them down.

    One mare had already been separated from the others. A gorgeous blood bay with a white star on her forehead and a single white sock, she was throwing a fit at being separated from her herd mates. Her mane and tail were in tangles, and there were scars covering her coat from battles with the other horses, as well as marks on her back caused by saddle work. There was no brand on her side, so it was unknown who had first tried to break her as a filly. She had joined the herd over the winter months, and with no one claiming her, no one at the Broken J ranch was going to look a literal gift horse in the mouth, not with the upcoming cattle season.

    And Clara meant to be the one riding her.

    Petite and thin, people often mistook her for being delicate, despite having been raised on this ranch. Her wild auburn hair, always kept short like a boy’s, was tucked in her good Stetson hat and her lanky body was protectively covered in a plaid shirt, jeans, and smooth-soled boots. Big amber eyes looked over a freckled button nose, her skin tan from years in the sun. All of her was dusty from the spring winds, though her clothes were carefully tucked in so that the flapping fabric wouldn’t spook the horses further.

    A ranch hand came to stand beside her, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. “You got your eye on the blood bay mare?” When she looked at him, startled, he grinned slowly, “I figured you would, Miss Clara, when we first found her with the herd. You always have an eye for the wild ones. However, I think you should let Slick take care of this one, at least at first.”

    Clara scowled at the other rider. Slick was an older man who was in charge of the horses at the Broken J, and also her uncle/legal guardian. He was a good hand at horses, but in the same token, so was Clara. She had been promised a chance to re-teach her own horse this summer, and she was going to hold her uncle to it. “I can handle her!” she said firmly. “She’s just a little spooked at the moment, that’s all!”

    “I don’t know Miss Clara… She almost too much horse for Ol’ Slick, not to mention you…” he drawled, his eyes twinkling as he leaned a little closer. “After all, you’re such a little thing…”

    “CLAY!” she protested loudly, which only sent the horses into further frenzy, the blood bay mare screaming a war cry that echoed Clara’s shriek. “Don’t you dare call me short, you flea-brained, half-cracked, dirt-ridden-.”

    “Please, don’t finish that string of insults.” The familiar voice of her uncle came from behind her. Whirling around, she saw him standing right behind the two of them, several halters and leads in his hands. He continued to speak calmly, “I thought I was raising you to be a lady, though apparently the ranch help’s particular brand of vernacular has taken root in you as well.”

    “Sorry, Uncle,” she mumbled, with Clay muttering a, “Sorry there, Slick,” at the same time. They stood aside as the older cowboy approached the gate, watching the horses much like Clara had been doing earlier. His eyes followed the same mare, noting how even in captivity she was asserting her dominance over the others.

    “She’s too wild for you, Clara,” he finally said, ignoring her gasp of outrage. “She’s was hurt badly by whoever tried to break her in the first time, and she’s going to put up a good fight this time around. I’ll be spending weeks on her, and you need to be out in the pasture checking fence and cattle, not taming a half-wild mare.”

    She scowled; his well-reasoned argument appealed to her own common sense. The fence was going to be in terrible shape after the huge ice storm the state had a couple of months back, and there were newborn calves to protect from wolves, coyotes, and thieves alike. Every rider was going to be needed, and Clara in particular had a way with animals. The old cows knew her ways and would let her near their newest calves, while the heifers remembered her from their own wide-eyed, gangly days and would trust her with their first-borns. The boss dog of the little pack the ranch kept on hand only obeyed three people: the ranch owner, Slick, and Clara. The other dogs followed him, and the owner was out of town at a stock auction. With Slick held up taming all the horses and organizing the stock pens for the arrival of the cattle, it left Clara to lead everyone. So, with much chagrin, Clara turned her eyes back to the herd.

    Finally, after all this time running, several of the horses were coming to a stop in the center of the whirlwind of dust and horseflesh. Among them was Red Feather, a big, powerful, and quick-footed sorrel gelding that had been a favorite of Clara’s growing up. He wasn’t in his prime anymore, already past his tenth year and well on his way to his teens, but he was still a sight to behold, standing calmly in the middle of chaos, waiting for someone to shimmy a halter over his head and snap a lead on. He would do well gathering the stray cattle and would wait patiently for her when she dismounted to fix a fence. So, with a sigh, she took a halter and lead from her uncle.

    Slick watched his niece carefully to make sure she wasn’t heading into trouble, whether it be in the still churning herd or within five feet of that blood bay. Instead, she stood to the side and made a strange sound in her throat that sounded like a whistle. It was one of Clara’s quirks; she couldn’t actually whistle, even if her life depended on it. Instead, she made a high-pitched noise in her throat that sounded similar to the other cowhands’ whistles, and most of the horses would answer to it. Red Feather was one of them. With years of experience dealing with the herd as well as picking his way through heads of cattle, he made it to where Clara was standing unscathed.

    Smiling, she reached up and gave his ears a rub before she slipped the halter over his head. He agreeably lowered his head to make it easier for her, and then didn’t even jerk when the loud snap of the lead attaching itself to the metal ring beneath his chin sent the other horses reeling. Clara led the big old horse out of the corral, much to her uncle’s approval.

    The next week was filled with all the ranch hands, including Clara, reminding the horses what a saddle was for. Many found themselves in the dirt several times, while others never once got thrown off. Meanwhile, Slick continued to tame the mare, with little success. She was throwing a fit every time he came near her with so much as a saddle pad. Only after a full week of effort did he finally get a halter over her head, though she wouldn’t tolerate a lead. Everyday, when he went into the small corral to work with her, Clara would dally around to watch for a few minutes, till Slick would give her a pointed look and she would hurry over to the patiently waiting Red Feather. Once all the ranch hands were satisfied with their horses, they rode out. Each morning, they would go in one direction. Once they finished one way, they would start on the next. In the north pasture alone, they found two downed fences as well as five early calves that had to be led home with their mamas to be branded. Southerly, there was less because that was where the horses had been kept, only one downed fence that was easy to repair. West of the ranch, another cow, this one a heifer, had given birth to her first set of calves, twin bulls. It took Clara and Red Feather a little longer to get them back to the ranch, seeing as one of the bull-calves kept running off, seemingly chasing butterflies. His mama was obviously tired of his antics, seeing as she dragged her feet the whole way. Clara felt sympathetic for the poor new mother.

    In the east pasture, they ran into trouble. They were two heifers and three older cows short, two of which were expecting calves, because the entire bordering fence was down. If they weren’t found, anyone could claim the calves, seeing as the ranch would have no proof they were theirs. The nearby Backward K ranch was well known for gathering Broken J cows when they got loose and keeping them with their own cattle for the year, a constant sore spot for both owners as well as the Broken J cowhands, who faced the wrath of their employer each time it happened.

    While the two big bosses argued over whether the Broken J cowhands should be allowed to search the Backward K herds, Clara had more time to spend with her uncle and the mare, who was still putting up one heck of a fight. Slick was about at his wit’s end with her, and his niece recognized the signs that this lovely mare might soon become dog meat. Finally, in a desperate act to save the mare, Clara did something that was ingenious, reckless, and would get her in a deep well of trouble. One evening, after Slick had given up for the night and was eating in the mess with the others, she snuck back out to the corrals, two sugar cubes in her pocket.

    Red Feather, who had a sweet tooth the size of Kansas, came forward from among the other ranch horses eagerly when she held one out, despite being exhausted from the day’s work. Clara cooed encouragingly in his ear as she clipped his lead on as quietly as possible and led him over to the mare’s corral. Immediately upon catching her scent, the mare scooted over to the opposite side of her small pen, ears laid back and her tail swishing warningly. Rather than risk loosing her fingers or getting kicked in the ribs, Clara stayed to close to the gate, only slipping in far enough to let the big sorrel gelding in. Once he was situated so he was blocking her from the mare’s possible wrath, she unclipped the lead and offered him the last sugar cube. “See if you can sweeten Wrath up a little tonight…” she whispered in his ear, unintentionally naming the mare as she patted the gelding’s head as he munched on his sugar. With that, she sneaked back through the gate, only glancing back once on her way to her bed.

    The next morning, Slick was red in the face as he looked in the corral. The sight of Red Feather made it quite clear to him who had done this. Though, he supposed he should be thanking Clara rather than yelling at her. For that blood bay mare, who every day before had snapped at him upon sight, was instead quietly standing next to the sorrel gelding. She let him come in through the fence with a saddle pad, even allowing him to brush it along her flank. Only when he put it on her back did her ears go back, and he immediately moved out of the way. The one yellow hoof slammed down angrily, but then that old gelding nipped her sharply, nudging her with that big head of his. Her ears slid forward, and she turned to nuzzle the big idiot, not even biting him back in play.

    “Well, I’ll be dang...” Slick muttered, propping his hat back with a whistle in surprise. It seemed that the mare had a sweet spot for Red Feather, a fact he never would have noticed, if it weren’t for Clara taking the initiative.

    Speaking of Clara… The teenage girl was peeking around the edge of the tack shed, obviously worried about how her actions were being taken. Still red in the face, Slick made a motion for her to come over, quickly. She ducked back behind the shed completely, obviously thinking she was in trouble. However, Clay, the young cowhand that Slick had noticed was sweet on his niece, saw her actions and, with a grin, lopped over. Slick wasn’t sure what happened, but next thing he knew a red-faced Clara was stomping over, furious, though not at him it seemed, as Clay came right behind her, a red spot shaped like a handprint on his cheek.

    “How hard did she hit you?” Slick asked the young man casually.

    Rubbing his jaw, Clay answered ruefully, “Hard enough.” Slick made a noise in the back of his throat, obviously pleased at the force Clara had put into hitting him. She had calmed down, though, and was standing nearby, awkwardly waiting for her punishment.

    Finally, Slick sighed and ruffled her auburn hair. “Next time, ask. You could have gotten Red Feather seriously hurt.” With that, he gestured to the pen. “You try and tame that mare, but make sure Clay is nearby or I am on hand before you go in there, clear?”

    “Crystal!” Clara chirped happily, relieved she was being punished. Clay quickly assured Slick he would stay close today, and with that Slick turned his attention to dealing with some of the other horses. Hesitantly, Clara moved over and leaned on the fence rail. “This is going to be fun…” she muttered sarcastically.

    Fun wasn’t the best word to describe the next couple of weeks. For all her sudden sweetness concerning Red Feather, plus her newly discovered fondness for peppermint when she accidently snagged a piece off the ground, Wrath didn’t like saddles, at all. It took multiple tries to get the saddle on her back, not to mention cinching it. Finally, though, she adjusted to the burden. Rather than try and put a bit behind those teeth and risk losing her fingers, Clara decided to use a hack. Already used to the halter by now, Wrath tolerated the hack much more than the saddle. As a training tool, Clara would place a bag of grain on the mare’s back in the saddle to get her used to the extra weight, leading her around by the reins. The blood bay eventually got to the point she would eagerly wait for Clara and her occasional treat of a piece of peppermint, no longer needing Red Feather to tolerate humans.

    But then came the first day with Clara actually in the saddle.

    Both Clay and Slick were on hand as Wrath was saddled. Red Feather was tied to the arena, a precaution in case Wrath ran off. The blood bay was munching on a piece of peppermint as Clara swung up onto her back. She stood still as the teenager adjusted, getting settled. Almost as a joke, it seemed, because once Clara was comfortable, Wrath lived up to her name. She began bucking and plunging like a wild horse again, not stopping till Clara hit the ground.

    Clay ran over when the teenage girl didn’t get up immediately after falling. Slick was nearby, and he grabbed Wrath’s reins, watching his niece in concern. However, she sat up with only a slight wince, panting as she tried to get her breath back. Her fall had knocked the breath out of her. The younger cowboy breathed a sigh of relief and helped her up, brushing some of the dust off of her back as she worked on her jeans.

    “Well, that went well,” Clara commented dryly.

    “It was your first time. It’s expected that you eat dirt,” Clay assured her.

    Slick handed her the mare’s reins. “You know what you have to do,” he reminded her. With a sigh, she took the reins and mounted up again once the other two had backed up. That wasn’t the last time Clara would be sent flying that day, or the next. It took three days for Wrath to figure out that Clara wasn’t going anywhere, and she might as well get used to it.

    That summer, when the cattle were being driven to the slaughterhouse, Clara was on Wrath’s back, Clay beside her on Red Feather. The mare watched all the cattle carefully, revealing that she would be good for cattle work. As they quietly rode behind the herd, Clay asked her, “Well, are you satisfied?”

    Clara chuckled. “Well, of course!” she answered, “I promised myself I would be on Wrath this summer. Despite uncle’s protest, I did what I set out to do!”

    “Though not without earning a few bruises first,” Clay added jokingly. She scowled at him and reached over to whap him upside the head. However, he had already spurred the big sorrel into a lope and was ahead of her. Laughing, she did the same with Wrath. With a kick of her hind feet, the blood bay mare hurried after the other pair, ears perked forward as her hooves flew over the ground, three black hooves and the single yellow pounding like thunder.