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He swung the rope in a circle in front of him as he led the horse about. Every time the animal tried to get by him, it encountered the twirling rope.
Sybil stared, mesmerized by the ease with which Brand swung the rope in a lazy loop...the poetry of motion in his limbs.
“Here, you try it.” He handed the rope to Buster and let the young cowboy lead the horse.
Brand looked in Sybil’s direction, his gaze direct, unblinking.
She’d wondered if he knew she watched, and now wondered if he liked having her there or—she swallowed hard—if he wished she’d leave him be.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She had a story to write. She girded up her heart with that excuse.
Buster led his horse around the pen and soon the animal decided it was safer behind him than facing the swinging rope.
Brand slowly took his attention from Sybil and she sucked in air to relieve her starving lungs.
“Let’s see you get on.”
Buster saddled his horse, but when he tried to mount it backed away just as he’d said.
Brand nodded. “Let’s try making it so he doesn’t want to do that. Grab under his chin and make him back up. When he gets to the fence, bring him forward and do it again. Soon enough he’ll decide it’s easier to let you get up than to be pushed around.”
As Buster followed those instructions, Brand sauntered toward Sybil. He leaned against the fence not four feet away from her.
She took it as invitation to talk. “I was surprised to find you here today.”
“Eddie bought some more horses.”
“I see.” She scratched at a splinter on the fence and pretended her throat hadn’t tightened. He’d mentioned only the horses. Of course she wasn’t surprised, and certainly not disappointed.
“Look,” Buster called. “He didn’t back up.” The young cowboy sat in his saddle, as pleased as could be. Then he jumped off and led his horse toward Brand. “Mister, you’re pretty good with horses. How’d you learn that?”
The question brought Sybil’s thoughts back to her purpose for being there—to get information. She watched Brand. He continued to lounge casually against the fence. Only a tightening around his eyes indicated the question struck a nerve.
“My pa was good with horses.”
She caught the past tense of the question. “So your pa is dead?”
He hesitated a beat. Two. “Not that I know of.”
“That’s good.” Buster’s sad tone was a contrast to his positive words.
Sybil shifted her attention to the young man. “Buster, how old are you?”
“Sixteen, ma’am. Or I will be pretty soon.”
He was barely more than a child. “Where are your parents? Why aren’t you with them?”
He looked beyond her into the distance. “I left them on a farm in the Dakotas.”
“You seem young to be on your own. Why did you leave?”
“They were dead, ma’am. All of them. My ma and pa and two sisters.” The words were barely audible, though Sybil caught no hint of self-pity. And he certainly had every right to feel such.
Her heart twisted with knowing how alone he must feel. “I’m so sorry.” She looked at Brand. His eyes darkened. His jaw muscles twitched. Compassion filled his gaze. Surely if he chose to be a recluse it wasn’t because he hated people. Or even because his dog came first.
What was his secret?
She couldn’t believe he was a wanted criminal, as Mercy had suggested. He simply didn’t seem the type.
What do you know about the type? Have you ever met any wanted criminals?
No, but surely their hearts would be cruel.
You think him helping Buster means he’s got a good heart?
Yes, of course it does. Besides, I’ve other evidence, such as his friendship with a dog and how he rescued me.
Aha. That kind of makes you see him with stars in your eyes, doesn’t it?
Not with stars, but with certainty.
You’re certain to have your heart dashed to pieces if you think it meant anything more than a man in the right place at the right time.
And willing to do the right thing. That makes him noble, if nothing else.
But are you ready to risk your heart on that?
No. She would be detached. A gatherer of information. Nothing more. She’d discover who he was. Criminal or otherwise.
