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An Impossible Price

By Davalynn Spencer

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An Impossible Price
Front Range Brides – Book 3

Davalynn Spencer


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For the wounded and the scarred.

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It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed,
because his compassions fail not.
They are new every morning; Great is thy faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22, 23

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Chapter 1

Olin Springs, Colorado
Late March 1885

The bay stallion pawed at the stock-car wall and tossed its head.
Quick as a rattlesnake, its back leg struck. A partition splintered, sending wood fragments showering over crates and barrels.
The horse had fought its constraints for the last four hours—all the way from Denver. It was only a matter of time before the battle between bolted wood and brute strength was decided
Clay’s money was on the horse.
The rhythmic clack of iron wheels began to drag, and Clay pushed to his feet, bracing against the louvered wall of the car. Already heavy with horse sweat and manure, the air thickened at the screech of steel on steel, fear tainting the mix. A long blast of the whistle drew his horse’s ears forward.
“It won’t be long now, Duster. We’re almost home.”
His buckskin’s dark eye widened with uncertainty. Its shoulder and leg muscles bunched for balance. Clay took hold of the rope that tethered the gelding and rubbed its neck and shoulder, telegraphing calm.
A general stock car wasn’t his first choice for either himself or his horse, but the Denver & Rio Grande had nothing else for livestock. He’d chosen the speed of a train over the length of the trail between Kansas City and Colorado, but he’d refused to ride with human passengers and risk injury—or worse—to his unattended horse.
The bay stallion was a perfect example of why.
The car jerked against its couplings, sending a nearby horse to its knees. Billowing steam hissed along the rails, and the train inched toward a full stop.
Olin Springs.
Clay eased out a tight hiss of his own. They weren’t off the train in one piece yet.
Memories of his first arrival rose like smoke from the stack—riding into town beaten, broke, and bitter. His outlook now was a whole lot better than it had been four years ago.
Expectation rippled through him, as well as the mixed bunch of horseflesh tethered to rings on the walls. Clay had secured a forward corner, farthest from the stallion and somewhat protected with the outer wall on one side and a flimsy partition on the other.
Anticipating the slide of the car door, he untied Duster and turned him to face daylight.
Behind them, the stallion reared against its rope. Any minute now.
Freight crewmen slid the door wide, and Clay led his horse down the stock ramp into sunshine and fresh air. They’d been too long cooped up.
As they hit solid earth, a panicked whinny sent a chill up Clay’s neck. He looked for someone to hold his horse and took a chance on an older boy in tall boots.
“Hold him steady and I’ll make it worth your while. And get back out of the way.”
The boy took Duster’s rope with a silent nod and seasoned hand.
In the same instant, a brutal crash from inside the car froze everyone on the station platform as well as those waiting for livestock.
Clay tugged his hat down and rushed to the open cargo door, finding exactly what he’d feared. The stallion had broken loose but had punched through the stock-car slats with a back leg and was wildly trying the break free—sawing deeper into its leg with every lunge. Frenzied, it bit and struck at whatever it could reach. There’d soon be a blood bath.
Arms wide, he whirled on the men who had crowded the loading ramp hoping to see the show. “Get back!”
Those close to him gave way, looking as uncertain about him as they did the commotion inside the car.
He swung up through the open door and flattened himself against the wall.
The lathered stallion blew and struck, head high, eyes wide and wild. Fear and pain were a volatile mix, Clay well knew. Who in their right mind would send a hot-blooded horse like this on a train without a handler?
A crewman came up the ramp and quickly led two horses out. Clay untied a half dozen more, looped their leads around their necks, and slapped them toward the door. After pulling his hat off, he dragged his sleeve across his forehead, then screwed the hat down hard. He had to come at the horse from the side—not unseen, but not straight on either. Setting his voice at a low, easy tone, he stepped away from the wall and eased toward the stallion.
If he survived, he might be worse for wear. If he didn’t, at least he’d die doing what he loved.
~

Sophie Price stood at the window inside Eisner’s tailor shop, her curiosity growing with the increasing number of people rushing toward the depot.
“What could it be?” Abigail Eisner, mere weeks from the birth of her first child, laid a protective hand on her swollen abdomen and joined Sophie at the window. “Please, go see and come back and tell me. I cannot go. Not like this.” She was clearly as eager to know as Sophie, her lively eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“All right, but I’ll return quickly. We have more to discuss.” She set her satchel on the floor at the end of the store counter. “I won’t be long.”
Hurrying out the door, Sophie almost felt guilty running after others who had dropped whatever they were doing to ogle an incident at the depot. A holdup? A shooting?
Spring fever, perhaps, drawing everyone outdoors, but she didn’t slow her steps until she rounded the Western Union office, where a crowd gathered near a stock car, its side door open at the loading ramp.
She pressed through onlookers and passengers who still lingered, all mesmerized by the rocking rail car. Her flesh crawled at the chilling screams of a horse, but a sudden silence disturbed her even more, eerie after such an uproar.
“I hope he’s not dead.” A fashionably dressed woman clung to her male companion’s arm. Both appeared to be travelers who had either just arrived or were ready to depart.
“Did you see him go in there alone? I doubt he survived from the sound of that demon he’s facing.”
The man pulled his arm free and encircled the anxious woman. “It’s a horse, Martha, not a demon.”
Sophie’s curiosity pushed her past social propriety. “Someone went in the car?”
“A cowboy,” the woman said, her voice struck through with awe. “At least he looked like a cowboy. That’s his horse over there.” She pointed to a saddled buckskin, held by the livery’s tack and stable boy. The horse stood with ears and eyes alert, watching the car.
At its whicker, Sophie’s attention returned to the loading ramp, where a man appeared in the doorway. He eased a lathered, wild-eyed horse to the edge of the ramp—one of the finest horses she’d ever seen, and clearly terrified. The man’s sweaty shirt clung to his back and broad shoulders, but he murmured to the horse in low tones, stroking its neck while leading it down the ramp.
Almost sure she could feel his calming presence herself, she worked her way closer for a better look.
Something about his manner sent a thrill rippling through her. His unquestionable ability to influence the horse, as if it drew peace from his gentle command.
A hush settled over the onlookers, and those closest to the ramp eased back. The rest of the crowd ebbed with them. And then the sea parted for this unlikely Moses as people opened a path for him and the lathered horse. Turning, he skimmed the crowd on each side, as if looking for something or someone—and his eyes locked on Sophie.
Startlingly blue.
Her breath caught. One hand fisted into her skirt.
He didn’t smile, or nod, or touch the brim of his hat. But recognition fired as sharply as if he’d spoken her name.
Passing by, he jerked his head for the livery boy to follow, and that’s when she saw the ugly gash on the stallion’s back leg. Blood pumped with every step and trailed to the hoof, calling for sutures.
A twinge at the corner of her mouth drew her fingers, but she tucked her hand under her arm. That beautiful animal would die a horrible death if the wound were left untended and became infected.
Following the two and their horses, she brushed past the crowd as it closed behind them. The handler spoke to the stallion in soothing tones, his voice steady and deep. Familiar. She knew of few who worked such miracles with wild or frightened horses. Deacon Jewett at the Parker ranch was one. The other, a young man who’d honed his gift at Deacon’s side.
Anticipation veined through her as she made the corner at Main Street, still following the livery boy and the stranger. Could it be? On occasion, Deacon’s young protégé had turned her head and set her mind to wondering if she’d remained unmarried for a reason not yet revealed. But young was the word that snagged. He’d been a boy of sixteen, she a woman of twenty, and that fact had quashed her musings in those days.
Craning her neck to better see the stranger, she noted his long stride and the slightest hint of a halting gait. Her heart reared like a horse itself, and she pressed a hand to the base of her throat.
The voice, the subtle limp. Those eyes. Only one person had all those traits, and when he’d left, he’d said nothing that made her think he’d ever return.
Far from an unseasoned youth, the confident stranger leading the fiery stallion might be no stranger at all.
Had Clay Ferguson come home?

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