Branded Hearts. Diana Hall

Front Range, Colorado, 1868

      Garret Blaine rode straight into a ranch yard full of commotion. Cowhands crowded the corral, yelling out bids. Dollars spilled from their lifted fists.

      “What the hell’s going on here?” He gave each of the Rockin’ G wranglers a calculated glare. Hellfire! First the news from town of rustlers in the area, and now this.

      Cracker, the cook, ambled over, the afternoon sun shining off his bald head. His porcupine whiskers bristled as he spoke. “I told Cade you weren’t gonna like this.”

      Cade! Garret should have known his brother would be at the center of any fracas. The rocker on their brand stood for his younger brother; a deck of cards would suit him better. Garret dismounted and threw his reins at the ranch tenderfoot, Davidson. With long, skinny limbs, big feet and sad eyes, the boy looked like a hound puppy as he scrambled to retrieve the leather reins.

      Garret used his height and the width of his shoulders to cut a wedge through the crowd. Guilty looks flickered over the faces of the cowhands. Standing with his feet wide, his arms crossed, Garret faced his brother.

      It was like looking in a mirror—ten years ago. Cade’s hair was a shade lighter than Garret’s sandy color, and his eyes more blue than green, but the attitude was the same—cocky and arrogant.

      Leaning against the corral post, Cade tipped back his new Stetson and appraised his brother with a mildly curious stare. “Howdy, Garret. Good time in town?”

      Garret ignored the question, his attention riveted on the tall man standing next to his brother. He was bare-chested except for a buckskin vest, and his tree-trunklike arms were corded with power. Scars crisscrossed a chest so wide that if he sighed, a man would feel the draft. His dark hair hung in two thick braids. Skin the color of burnished copper and eyes as blue as the Texas sky heralded the man’s heritage. Half-breed.

      Power radiated from the big Indian. And Garret detected a carefully controlled savagery in the man’s stare. Garret asked, “What’s he doing here?”

      Cade’s lips tightened, then his aggravating grin returned. “I hired him to break the black.”

      Inside the corral, the wild mustang bellowed a challenge. He shook his coal-black mane, then reared back, his deadly hooves shaking the ground.

      “I told you to break that horse.” Prickles of impatience skimmed down Garret’s spine. While he broke his back working, Cade wasted time gambling. But what should he expect? Growing up in a saloon wasn’t the best schoolroom to teach responsibility.

      The half-breed straightened. His voice rumbled like thunder. “We seek work. Not trouble.”

      “Them’s cowboys.” Cracker gave Garret a nod and spit out a long stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “They rode in with hackamores.” More than a little awe colored the old-timer’s comment. Only the best riders guided their horses with just a rope bridle.

      They? Garret scanned the crowd. Standing a few paces from the tall Indian, a slight figure held the reins of two horses. Despite the thick shirt and fringed leather jacket, the boy couldn’t hide his age. There wasn’t even a trace of peach fuzz on his chin! Just a scrap of dark hair could be seen beneath the slouched brim of the youngster’s hat.

      The boy looked up. A gaze, the identical shade of the Indian’s, contemplated Garret. The two must be brothers. That shade of ice-blue was too rare for happenstance.

      Suspicion pricked his reasoning. Two drifters arrive on the same day as news of rustlers. “I’m not hiring.”

      Cade traced the outline of the brand burned into the corral fence post. Letting his finger rest on the rocker, he said, “I thought this rocker on our brand C stood for me. Guess not.”

      For a year, Garret had lectured, threatened and scolded Cade about taking more responsibility. “The ranch’s half yours.”

      “Then I figure I can do some hiring since the ranch is half mine,” Cade said.

      The government contract to supply the army forts with horses and beef came up for bid this summer. The Rockin’ G rode a tightrope between poverty and prosperity. That contract would guarantee enough income that Garret could start to make improvements on the ranch and generate some savings.

      But Sam Benton held the most influence as to who would get the cavalry deal. In the last few years, the only thing of Benton’s that had grown faster than his bank account was his dislike of Indians. And then there was Abigail Benton, the old man’s niece. Garret had been courting the girl for six months, and she shared the same views as her prestigious uncle.

      Hellfire! Cade couldn’t have chosen a worse time to hang Garret over the coals. He could feel the men’s gaze glued to him. Waiting. Ready to judge Cade’s position. Half owner or just a tolerated little brother? If Garret ever hoped to have his brother as a full partner, he couldn’t afford to embarrass him in front of the wranglers. And the Indian did look hard as a whetstone and tough as jerky—two traits that would help Garret protect the herd. “How do you know he can break a horse?”

      Cade smiled and pointed to the churned ground in the corral. “I think we can test just how good a cowboy he is.”

      The stallion raced along the fence, his mane flying, his tail high, pausing to trample some imaginary foe.

      Garret barked, “The stallion’s a killer. Can you handle him?”

      “If we do, will you give us a job?” the smaller Indian questioned as he pushed his way forward. His gaze fixed on the lathered sides of the stallion. He tucked a few loose hairs under his black felt hat.

      “Break the stallion, and he’ll give you the ranch.” Cade chuckled.

      “Don’t need a ranch, just a job.” The boy’s cold stare met Garret’s. For a youngster, the lad showed merit. His gaze didn’t falter as it drilled into Garret.

      The two Indians were drifters. Trail dust layered their clothes and bedrolls. They’d move on after a few months, and the army would be none the wiser.

      Garret knew what it was like to be spit on and insulted. Being the son of a saloon gal wasn’t much different from being half-Indian. “If the stallion is broken, Cade’ll hire your brother.”

      “What about me?”

      “I’ll give you a job for as long as you want it,” Garret promised.

      The big half-breed gave the younger one a long, silent look. Without a word passing between them, a decision was made. Both moved toward the corral.

      “Two bits says he lasts longer than any of us did.” Cade gave Garret a devilish wink.

      “I’ll take that bet.” Cracker joined several other cowhands clamoring for a piece of the deal. Fists rose again, money exchanged hands.

      Wranglers leaned against the top rail of the corral, eager to see exactly what the powerful Indian was capable of. The cowhands looked like a poorly constructed Navajo blanket. Their shirts wove an uneven line of desert reds and browns while their jeans formed a uniform lower border.

      Both Indians walked into the corral. Pine needles littered the ground, soaking up the moisture from last night’s summer rain.

      The big Indian carried an old flour sack, the boy lugged a dally saddle. The stallion paced, whirled, then raced toward the youth. While the small Indian plowed through the mud toward the fence rail, still toting the saddle, the older one whipped out the sack and covered the black’s eyes. Blinded, the animal halted, his nostrils flaring.

      “Kit?” The big Indian faced his smaller brother as he held on to the stallion’s halter.

      “I’m fine.” Kit’s breath came out in short bursts. He slapped on the saddle and tightened the girth. The stallion pranced sideways.

      Cracker, the ranch doomsayer, muttered, “Pshaw! They done got the black madder than