Chapter 8 - The Gray MareSarah Voss returned the next morning.
Wade came with her.
He carried a folder.
“Found my records.”
Clay folded his arms.
Hannah stood near Sable.
Wade opened the folder.
Three purchase receipts.
Two veterinary invoices.
One photograph.
“This gray mare,” he said, pointing.
The photograph showed a young gray horse standing near Wade’s barn.
Sarah examined it.
“Date?”
“Three years ago.”
“Name?”
“Pearl.”
Hannah looked toward the gray mare.
No response.
Wade whistled.
The horse immediately backed away.
Hannah noticed again.
Sarah did too.
“Distinctive markings?”
“Gray horse.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow.
“You understand there are several of those.”
Wade pointed to a dark patch along the mare’s right shoulder.
“Skin pigmentation.”
Sarah used binoculars.
Possible match.
Not proof.
“What happened to Pearl?”
“Got out.”
“When?”
Wade hesitated.
“Couple years.”
Hannah frowned.
“Two years loose and you never reported her?”
Wade glared.
Sarah asked the same question more professionally.
Wade shrugged.
“Figured she was dead.”
“Then why do you suddenly have paperwork ready?”
He looked irritated.
“Because she showed up.”
Sarah continued examining the other horses.
None matched Wade’s documents.
Not clearly.
Finally she said:
“At most, you may have a claim to the gray mare. I’ll verify records.”
Wade pointed to the herd.
“If Pearl was mine and foaled any of those—”
“Ownership questions will be handled after identification.”
Hannah watched the gray mare.
Sable stood beside her.
The relationship between them seemed different from the others.
Not simply herd mates.
Closer.
Hannah remembered the old wildfire story.
Sable had been found as a yearling after a range band scattered.
The rescued filly had been buckskin.
The band’s lead mare, according to the old rancher who found her, had been gray.
Hannah’s heart quickened.
Could this be—
No.
She stopped herself.
She had spent years turning possibilities into stories.
She needed evidence.
After everyone left, Hannah searched the barn office.
Old veterinary records.
Adoption paperwork.
A faded photograph from the day Sable arrived.
The man who rescued her, Howard Crane, stood beside the trailer.
Behind him were notes scribbled on the photo envelope.
Hannah read:
Young buckskin filly. Found 2 miles east of Dalton burn. Gray mare tracks nearby. Mare would not approach.
Hannah sat down.
Clay entered.
“What are you doing?”
She handed him the note.
He read.
“Could mean anything.”
“I know.”
Clay looked surprised.
“You’re not going to tell me that gray horse is Sable’s mother?”
“I think she might be.”
“That sounds more like you.”
Hannah almost smiled.
Almost.
Their relationship since the post had become painfully careful.
Clay asked before entering her room.
Asked before touching her shoulder.
Asked before helping.
He had apologized every day.
Hannah had accepted none of them.
Not because she hated him.
Because the word sorry felt too small.
He sat across from her.
“Hannah…”
“Not now.”
He nodded.
She appreciated that.
Later, Hannah telephoned Howard Crane.
He was seventy-eight now.
His hearing was poor.
But he remembered the fire.
“Buckskin filly?”
“Yes.”
“Mean little thing.”
Hannah smiled.
“She improved.”
Howard laughed.
“What about the gray mare?”
He became quieter.
“Old lead mare. Smart horse.”
“Did she have a dark patch on her shoulder?”
“Think so.”
Hannah looked through the barn window.
The gray mare grazed beside Sable.
“Did anybody own that herd?”
“Dalton horses originally, probably. Old man Dalton died and nobody gathered all of them. They bred out there for years.”
“Wade Larkin says the gray mare belonged to him.”
Howard became silent.
Then:
“Wade?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“He tried catching that herd after the Dalton place went vacant.”
Hannah sat straighter.
“Did he catch the gray mare?”
“Once.”
Her heart jumped.
“What happened?”
Howard chuckled.
“She went through his fence like it insulted her.”
Hannah looked toward Pearl.
That explained the fear.
“Did Wade own her?”
“No idea. He sure wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because people pay good money for pretty range horses if you can gentle them.”
Hannah thanked him.
Before hanging up, Howard said:
“Girl?”
“Yes?”
“If that gray mare came in behind your buckskin willingly…”
He paused.
“Horses remember family longer than people think.”
Hannah ended the call.
Outside, Sable and the gray mare stood nose to nose.
Clay came to the doorway.
“What did he say?”
Hannah turned.
“Wade caught that mare once.”
“Owned her?”
“Howard doesn’t think so.”
Clay’s face hardened.
If Wade had falsely claimed the horse before, his paperwork might not prove ownership.
But Hannah was thinking about something else.
Why had the herd left the ridge now?
The spring was dry.
But seven horses following a tame mare all the way to a farm suggested desperation.
That evening Hannah rode to the western boundary.
She found hoofprints.
And something else.
Fresh tire tracks.
May you like
Coming from Wade Larkin’s side.
Leading toward the dry Dalton spring.
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