“No.”
“What else?”
“A silver whistle.”
Ethan frowned.
“A whistle?”
“And papers.”
“What kind?”
“Records.”
“Of what?”
Her voice became almost inaudible.
“People he ruined.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Charles?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Because my mother kept them.”
“Why?”
Amelia looked at him.
“Because Charles’s father destroyed her before Charles tried to do the same thing to me.”
Ethan’s anger cooled into something sharper.
“Start at beginning.”
She shook her head.
“Cattle first.”
“Amelia.”
“Your ranch is bleeding because of me.”
“Our ranch.”
She looked at him.
He repeated:
“Our ranch.”
Then:
“But yes.”
“Cattle first.”
“We talk tonight.”
She nodded.
Ethan mounted.
He rode north.
By midnight, they had recovered most of the scattered cattle.
Two calves were missing.
One cow had cut her shoulder badly on wire but would live.
The fence itself had not failed from weather.
Every post along one section had been deliberately loosened.
Wire clipped clean.
Someone had worked with tools.
Ethan found hoofprints near the wash.
Three horses.
Maybe four.
Coming from the direction of town.
No doubt remained.
When he returned to the house after one in the morning, Amelia was waiting in the kitchen.
The wooden box sat on the table.
For the first time.
Ethan stopped in the doorway.
She had changed into a simple white nightgown beneath a brown shawl.
Her hair hung loose.
The box looked smaller than he remembered.
Dark walnut.
Brass corners.
Iron latch.
A faded symbol carved into the top.
A horse’s head surrounded by what looked like reeds.
Ethan removed his hat.
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Then don't.”
Amelia looked at the box.
“I’ve spent ten years not being sure.”
She unlocked it.
Inside were three leather journals.
A velvet pouch.
A bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon.
A small silver whistle.
And beneath them, folded newspaper clippings.
Amelia lifted the first journal.
“My grandmother belonged to a line of women who worked with horses.”
Ethan leaned against the table.
“Horse trainers?”
“People called them worse things.”
“What?”
“Witches.”
He almost smiled.
She did not.
His expression sobered.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
Amelia opened the journal.
The handwriting was dense.
Diagrams.
Horse ears.
Eyes.
Muscle positions.
Breathing patterns.
Notes.
Hundreds of pages.
“She called it listening.”
Ethan turned one page.
“This looks like veterinary study.”
“Some of it is.”
“Some isn’t.”
“What’s the whistle?”
Amelia picked it up.
“My grandmother’s.”
“What does it do?”
“Nothing by itself.”
“Sound?”
“A frequency.”
“She believed certain tones slowed a frightened horse’s breathing enough for a handler to approach.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Does it?”
“Yes.”