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“It was in the den beneath a stack of newspapers a mile high! Thought you might be lookin’ for it.”
“Haven’t had much use for it here.”
“Why not? Seems to me you can take pictures of anything.” Her old eyes twinkled. “You don’t have to limit yourself to war and political scandals and all the rest of that nonsense.”
“Nonsense, is it?”
“If you ask me.”
He slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “I guess I’m just not into pastoral scenes.”
“Maybe it’s time you changed. Slowed down a bit. Before the next bullet does more damage than the last one.”
“It won’t,” he assured her, setting his empty cup in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.”
With the same restless feeling that had followed him in, Colton shouldered his way through the door and walked outside. He considered Milly’s advice, discarded most of it, but couldn’t help wondering if she were right about Ivan. How much simpler things would be if Aldridge weren’t behind Black Magic’s disappearance. How much easier his relationship with Cassie would be.
Loading his camera without thinking, Colton lifted it, staring through the lens and clicking off a few quick shots—Len, tall and rawboned, the epitome of the twentieth-century cowboy, working with a mulish buckskin colt; Curtis leaning against the top rail of the fence, smoking and eyeing the surrounding land; the sun squeezing through thin white clouds. Snap. Snap. Snap.
And yet his mind wasn’t focused on the image in the lens; his thoughts kept wandering to Cassie. He forced himself to concentrate. Snap. He caught Curtis leading Black Magic outside. Snap. A shot of the horse yanking on the lead rope and rearing against a backdrop of late afternoon sky.
The clicking of the shutter sounded right. The view through the lens looked right, and yet, something was missing—something vital—that surge of adrenaline he’d experienced so often when he’d stared through the eye of the camera.
“Hell with it,” he muttered, savagely twisting on the lens cap and shoving the camera into its case. Without considering the consequences of what he was doing, he shouted to Curtis that he’d be gone for part of the evening, advising the older man to lock Black Magic in his stall. Then he strode angrily across the yard to his Jeep. He jammed his key into the ignition and growled an oath at himself. Tonight, come hell or high water, he was going to see Cassie again.
* * *
She saw him coming. Pale sunlight glinted against chrome and steel. Tearing down the narrow lane, the motorcyclist bore down on her. Yanking hard on the steering wheel, Cassie felt the old truck shimmy, its wheels bouncing on the uneven ground as she made room. The motorcycle sped past. The driver, dressed in black from helmet to boots and huddled over the handlebars, didn’t glance her way as he drove recklessly on the narrow lane leading from the Aldridge house.
“Damned fool!” Cassie muttered, her heart pounding as she stared into the rearview mirror and watched as the motorcycle disappeared around the bend.
She eased the truck back into the twin ruts of gravel that comprised the lane and drove the final quarter-mile to the house. Her heart was still thundering wildly when she parked her pickup near the garage. “Who was that?” she demanded, hopping out of the cab and spying her father in the door to the barn. Erasmus yelped at the sight of her and bounded over, whining and wiggling at her feet.
“Ferguson,” Ivan replied.
“Ryan Ferguson? What was he doing here?” Bending down, Cassie scratched the old dog behind his ears. “He drives like a maniac!”
“He was looking for work.” Her father wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and stuffed it back into the pocket of his overalls. “I hired him.”
“You did what?” she fumed, still shaking from the close call. “He nearly ran me off the road!”
Ivan’s eyes filled with concern. “Did he?”
“Didn’t you see it!”
“I was in the barn.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“No thanks to him!” she snapped angrily.
“I’ll have a talk with him,” Ivan said, frowning and staring at the lane. “He starts work tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she repeated, stunned. “Why?”
“’Cause I need help, that’s why,” Ivan replied. “The mares will start foaling next week, and I’ll be planting grain soon, not to mention the regular chores.”
“But why Ryan Ferguson? Denver McLean fired him because—”
