Spring, 1999
Red Canyon, Arizona
Marisa McCabe swung the heavy stock saddle up on Lightfoot’s broad back. She frowned as she reached under the bay gelding’s round barrel to snag the cinch. The cords were frayed and ragged. She probably ought to change it. There were bound to be a couple of better ones hanging in the tack shed.
On the other hand, if she intended to be gone before Berne got back from a horse-shoeing job across town, she really didn’t have time to go look. If she wasn’t gone, he’d yell. She decided to risk the cinch, drew the latigo through the buckle, and tugged it tight.
Leaving Lightfoot tied to the hitching rack, she grabbed a handful of rope halters with nylon leads. With them she caught the three yearlings she’d lead or “pony” for their daily exercise. Moments later
