Into The Storm. Helen DePrima

leather vests and hats in the window and Burke’s Sundries with T-shirts and postcards in racks on the sidewalk. Ornate gold letters spelled out Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium across the plate-glass window.

      “My daughter works there weekends and after school some days. She’s stashing her paychecks for college. At least I hope that’s how she’ll use the money.”

      “Isn’t she underage to work at a saloon? Sorry, none of my business.”

      “The Queen stopped serving liquor during Prohibition, but folks around here would shoot anybody who tried to change the name. Margie serves the best food in town—in La Plata County, for that matter. Chicken-fried steak and liver with bacon and onions...” He rolled his eyes and smacked his lips.

      “No sushi or veggie wraps, I’m guessing.”

      Jake laughed. “Not hardly.” He checked his watch. “Too bad she isn’t serving lunch yet, but we could stop for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Margie makes a dried peach pie that’s been written up in the Denver Post—some food show even featured it.”

      “I’d better get out to the Norquist ranch.” Spending the whole morning—and the night before—with Jake Cameron had become claustrophobic, too comfortable for her peace of mind.

      “Maybe another time,” he said, and directed her to the Farm and Ranch Exchange on the outskirts of town. A rustic log structure anchored an ell, sided with pale shingles, and a steel shed with loading bays.

      “Might as well pick up a few things myself,” he said, “as long as I’m here.” He climbed down from the truck.

      She entered the store with Stranger at her side, breathing in the comforting smells of leather and molasses feed, saddle soap and new sisal. Hunting and fishing supplies filled the front room, with mounted heads of deer and elk and pronghorns staring sightlessly from the smoke-darkened walls. Garden supplies, hardware and pet products could be found in the next room, according to the sign over a wide archway. She found the proper dog food and followed Jake to the checkout.

      A heavy-shouldered man, dark-skinned with a single long braid, stood behind a long counter. “Hey, cousin. Nice win for Tom, but you look like you did about three seconds on Bodacious.”

      “Skidded off the road on my way home,” Jake said. “No real harm done.”

      “June’s been asking about you.”

      “I’m keeping pretty busy with the boys gone so much.” He looked away. “Calving season, you know. Tell her hey for me.”

      He nodded toward Shelby. “Meet Shelby Doucette—she’s going to start those mustangs for Ross Norquist. I’m giving her a ride up to his place.”

      “Oscar Buck,” the man said, reaching across the counter to shake her hand. “What tribe, sister?”

      “Choctaw a long way back,” she said, “crossed with Cajun and a dash of runaway slave.”

      “Don’t mind Oscar,” Jake said. “He’s nosy as a pup but not near as smart.”

      Oscar grinned as if he’d heard the gibe before.

      “Ross will sure be glad to see you,” Oscar said. “He’s caught between Liz wanting to treat those horses like pet ponies and his boy itching to play rodeo with them. Either way, somebody’s bound to get hurt.”

      He peered over the counter. “Handsome dog you got there.”

      “Stranger, sit,” Shelby said. “Paws.” Stranger sat and placed both front paws on the countertop beside the forty-pound bag of Science Diet Large Breed.

      Oscar laughed and extended his hand for the dog to sniff. “Howdy, Stranger. Any friend of Cousin Jake’s is welcome.”

      He turned back to Jake. “I stopped for coffee at the Queen yesterday,” he said. “Lucy sure is jacked up about some play she’s in.”

      Jake rubbed his forehead. “Mike Farley and the high school drama teacher are all that’s keeping her in school—she’s still set on trying her luck in Hollywood or New York. I hate to think what’ll happen when Mike leaves for Boulder in the fall.” He scribbled a list on the back of an envelope fished from his pocket. “You want to get this up for me? Put the dog food on my account, too.”

      “No, thanks!” Shelby dug a roll of bills from her jeans and laid down three twenties. “We pay our own way.”

      Jake shrugged. Oscar took the bills and gave her change before tucking the bag under one arm. “Meet you around back.”

      “I’ll take it from here,” Jake said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I don’t want Oscar spreading the tale I wasn’t fit to drive. He’s got a big heart and a bigger mouth.”

      Shelby handed him the keys. “You sure you’re okay?”

      “Shoot, I felt fine soon as I got some caffeine into my system. I’ve driven that road more times than I care to count, taking my wife down to the University Medical Center. I kind of enjoyed the chance to sit back and look around.”

      Oscar heaved a final bag of cattle cake into the back of the truck beside several bales of straw. “I can’t give you a full keg of fence staples till the truck comes in tomorrow,” he said.

      “No problem,” Jake replied. “I’ll send one of the boys to pick it up.”

      Jake drove north on Route 550 a dozen miles before turning onto a narrow gravel road, climbing between sandstone walls until the canyon opened into a sheltered valley. Snow still lay along the lane, but new buds shone golden on the willows overhanging a brawling creek. Jake drove past a neat frame house to the cluster of barns and sheds beyond. He tapped his horn, and two men emerged from a long pole barn. The older man, his weathered face furrowed with puzzlement, strode to the truck as Jake ran down his window.

      “Howdy, Jake. What brings you—”

      “Saved you a trip, Ross. Here’s your horse tamer.”

      Norquist bent and peered past Jake. “Shelby Doucette? Dang, girl—you’re mighty welcome here. This yahoo—” he jerked his head at the younger man behind him “—he’s hot to break those horses the old-fashioned way.”

      “Reckon we’ll try your way first.” A younger man, tight-muscled under a Blue Seal T-shirt, sauntered forward with his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Since Ma’s set on it. I’m Gary Norquist—just holler when you need help.”

      Shelby sighed inwardly—one of those. He would give her no respect as a woman or as a trainer. Jerks like the truck driver were less trouble. She could blow them off with Stranger’s help, but she needed to work around Gary Norquist.

      She wished for the hundredth time she looked her age or, even better, as old as she felt. She played down her looks the best she could. Once, she had cut her hair boy-short, but it had grown out in a halo of soft dark curls, making her look maybe fifteen. Skinning it back in a braid at least looked businesslike. She stuck with relaxed jeans and shapeless shirts, rarely wore shorts and didn’t own a dress. Sometimes in her dreams she felt a skirt flutter around her knees and woke with her heart pounding, weeping tears she never shed in her waking hours.

      “Thanks, but I work strictly with the horses’ owner. Stranger, to me,” she said without turning her head. She heard a scramble of claws, and the dog sat at her side, ears pricked.

      The smirk faded from Gary Norquist’s face.

      “You must be Shelby.” A lanky woman with gray-shot auburn hair haphazardly gathered into a bun had come up behind them. “I’m Liz Norquist,” she said, wringing Shelby’s hand. “The boys keep saying horse-breaking is men’s work, but I reckon we’ll show them different. Come, see the horses.” She strode toward a fenced enclosure, her denim skirt flapping around her legs.

      Her husband and son fell in behind her, Gary rolling his eyes and muttering. “Come