Page 4

Claire checked every water bucket, topped the two that ran low, and ran her palm across the salt block to confirm it stayed dry. The ledger sat in the small office off the kitchen. She would update it later with tonight’s notes on Wren’s groundwork. The mare had arrived thin and wary three months ago. Claire worked her twice daily in the round pen—slow circles, soft voice—teaching her that nothing here would hurt her. The rescue operation had reached its limit. The existing shelters and winter feed could support seventeen horses, maybe thirty-five if the winter shelter and east parcel came through. The east parcel remained unsold. The shelter drawings stayed rolled on the shelf above her desk. She could stretch the feed budget another season or delay the next load of senior feed. She could do many things that felt like compromise.

Her phone vibrated against her hip, three short pulses through the denim of her jeans. Claire paused with one hand still on Ranger’s stall door. She pulled the phone free and looked at the screen.

Rebecca Sloane.

Claire stared at the name. When was the last time she’d heard from Rebecca?

It had been a lifetime since she had left Los Angeles, left the stunt work, left everything behind. She let it ring once more, then answered and walked out of the barn toward the house.

“Hello.”

The porch steps creaked under her boots. She sat in the left wooden chair, the one she always used, and rested her forearms on her thighs. Warm evening air moved across her neck where a few strands had slipped from her low ponytail. The Larkspur Range filled the western sky, still glowing gold.

“Claire.” Rebecca’s voice came through clear and careful, the polished tone of someone who knew she was intruding. “It’s Rebecca. Sloane. I hope this call isn’t a complete shock after all these years.”

Claire kept her breathing even. The wooden rail under her left hand held the last heat of the day. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has. I realize I have no right to call you out of the blue like this.” Rebecca’s tone carried a genuine note of apology. “I’m not calling to dredge up the past. I’m calling because I have an opportunity that might interest you. Or it might not. Either way, I wanted to run it by you personally.”

Claire watched a crow lift from the fence line and wheel west toward the timber. She waited.

“It’s a small independent film,” Rebecca continued. “Written and produced by the lead actress herself. The working title is Finding Her Way Back. It’s a sapphic love story set on a Montana ranch. We need an authentic location. A working barn, real horses. And I couldn’t help but think of you.” She paused. “Someone who actually understands horses and film work.”

Claire grimaced. A film crew. On her ranch. Lights, equipment, strangers moving through her barn and her pastures for weeks. The thought tightened something low in her stomach.

“I don’t host film crews,” she said.

“I completely understand,” Rebecca replied quickly. “You walked away from all of that. I respect it. This would be a big ask. But it might be worth it for you. The production is offering two hundred and ten thousand as a location fee and another forty-five thousand for you to serve as head wrangler and horse coordinator. Two hundred and fifty-five thousand total. Half wired the day the contract is signed. The rest on wrap. Four weeks total—one week of prep, three weeks of principal photography. The crew would mostly stay at the motel in Juniper Falls or in the bunkhouse. Your house would stay private. Your daily routine would stay mostly intact.”

Claire said nothing. The numbers moved through her head whether she wanted them to or not. A potential down payment on the east parcel. Structural steel and roofing for the winter shelter. Enough winter hay to carry thirty-five rescues instead of seventeen. Automatic waterers that wouldn’t freeze. Deep bedding packs. Room to pull six more horses off the kill-pen trucks before first snow.

She could see the shelter clearly in her mind—three-sided sheds facing south, protected from the worst winds coming off the Larkspur Range. The rescue could grow. More mustangs like Wren who needed time and quiet.

Rebecca had no idea about the rescue expansion. She had no idea how tight the winter feed budget had become. She was simply making an offer, probably expecting a quick no.

“I know this is coming completely out of nowhere,” Rebecca said, the apologetic note returning. “And I won’t be offended if you turn it down flat. I just thought… the money is real, the project is meaningful, and you’re still the best person I know when it comes to horses on camera. The lead actress has almost no riding experience. They’ll need careful, patient training. I know your talents were mostly used for stunts, but I also know that was always your specialty, being able to get an actor comfortable around horses.”

Claire stood up from the chair. The porch felt suddenly too still. She walked to the rail and looked at the barn. The south doors remained slid halfway open. Warm light from the pendant lamp spilled onto the gravel. Inside, the horses would be settling for the night. Maple would have finished her grain. Wren would stand at the round pen gate, ears swiveling at every small sound from the creek or the wind in the cottonwoods.

“I don’t know,” Claire said.

“Look, I understand,” Rebecca answered. “Truly. I’ll email the contract and the screenplay tonight anyway. Just in case you change your mind. Read them or don’t. The offer stands until the end of the week.”

Claire didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry again for surprising you like this,” Rebecca said, quieter now. “It really has been a long time.”

Claire kept the phone at her ear and looked at the barn. The south doors sat open a hand’s width, and the pendant light burned steady down the middle of the aisle. Twenty-three horses on this place. Seventeen of them had come in with their ribs showing and no reason left to trust anybody.

Two hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars. Half on signing.

She knew the numbers without checking the paper. Land first, then a three-sided shelter with the open side facing south, then gates and waterers, then the vet bill for whatever came off the truck next. Thirty-five horses under a roof before the hard frost.

Claire stood with her hand on the rail. “Rebecca.”

“Yes?”

“Write the contract.”