By the time the mountain man stepped into the stable, the entire town had already decided what kind of woman stood beneath its roof.
Too strong.
Too blunt.
Too broad through the hips.
Too willing to look a man directly in the eye when he spoke nonsense.
Too comfortable carrying grain sacks that some men preferred to imagine women could not lift.
Too familiar with horses, tools, money, and the ugly side of work.
Too old, at twenty-nine, to inspire the forgiving language people used for unmarried girls.
Too useful to her family to be treated as somebody who might have plans of her own.
And, according to the men laughing beside the tack room that afternoon, far too much woman for any sensible man to want as a wife.
The stable woman heard every word.
She simply kept tightening the leather trace in her hands.
Years of living in a small Colorado mountain town had taught her something useful.
If you reacted to every insult, other people eventually learned they could control your day simply by opening their mouths.
So she bent beside the large bay gelding and kept working.
Her cream blouse had once been white, but stable dust had turned it the permanent color of old flour. The sleeves were rolled past her elbows. A heavy brown leather apron protected her skirt. Strands of dirty-blonde hair had pulled loose from the braid at her back and stuck to the side of her neck.
Her arms ached.
Her lower back ached.
Her left palm had a fresh blister.
She was hungry.
And her older brother was standing twenty feet away, laughing with two ranchers as though the woman holding his failing business together could not hear him discussing her like a mule at auction.
One rancher said, “You’d have an easier time selling that roan than marrying your sister.”
Her brother laughed.
The second rancher looked toward her.
“She’d scare most men before breakfast.”
“Only most?”
Her brother lifted a bottle.
“You underestimate her.”
More laughter.
The stable woman pulled the strap hard enough that the bay gelding flicked one ear toward her.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She loosened slightly.
The horse breathed against her shoulder.
Animals rarely cared whether she was graceful.
That was one reason she preferred them.
A horse wanted clear hands.
Food.
Water.
A dry stall.
A person who did not lie with reins.
People were considerably more complicated.
The sound of another horse approaching stopped the men’s laughter.
Hooves struck frozen earth beyond the open stable doors.
Slow.
Heavy.
Unhurried.
The stable woman looked up.
The first thing she saw was the horse.
A black mountain-bred gelding, tall and deep-chested, with dried snow along its legs and a pack saddle scar near one shoulder.
Then the rider dismounted.
He was larger than she expected.
Not merely tall.
Built for a place where survival required moving things that did not want to be moved.
A heavy brown coat lined with pale shearling sat across broad shoulders. Beneath it was a black vest over a charcoal shirt, a thick neck cloth, a worn gun belt, and trousers stained with mountain mud. His black hat had been shaped by weather rather than fashion.
A thick beard covered much of his face.
Long brown hair curled against his coat collar.
He looked like the kind of man mothers used to end arguments with restless children.
Eat your supper or the mountain man will come down from the pass.
The stable woman had heard stories.
Everybody in Red Creek had.
He trapped above the timberline.
Guided survey parties.
Moved freight in weather that closed regular wagon roads.
Once carried an injured prospector six miles through snow.
Once broke a man’s arm in a saloon.
Possibly both stories were true.
Possibly neither.
Small towns improved facts for entertainment.
Her brother straightened immediately.
That interested her.
He did not straighten for many people.
The older brother walked out from beside the tack room wearing the good vest he never wore while actually working.
“You made it.”
The mountain man handed his reins to nobody.
“I said I would.”
His voice was low.
Rough.
Not unfriendly.
The brother gestured toward the stable.
“You won’t find better stock this side of the divide.”
The stable woman almost laughed.
Three months ago, her brother had wanted to sell half those horses to pay gambling debt.
Now they were the finest animals west of Denver.
The mountain man looked through the stable.
His eyes moved over stalls.
Harness.
Feed bins.
Roof beams.
Then stopped on the woman.
Only briefly.
He did not stare at her chest.
Did not look her body up and down with the smug curiosity she knew too well.
He looked at what she was doing.
Then at the gelding’s shoulder.
“Trace rubbing him.”