The Taming Of Jackson Cade. Bj James

laughed, a bitter, defeated sound. “How do I do that? Accomplishing what?”

      “You do it by taking yourself into the house to make the phone call you’ve refused to consider.” Jesse’s fingers tightened on Jackson’s shoulder. In compassion, in respect, in regret for a man too proud for his own good. “I can’t say what it will accomplish, but it’s a chance. And if it saves the poor, mad critter back there in that stall, or even if it only eases his suffering, what’s the eating of a little crow in comparison?”

      “You don’t mince words, do you, old man?”

      “Never have,” Jesse drawled. “And just like you said, I’m too old to start.”

      Jackson nodded but didn’t look away from the land.

      This was more than River Trace. It was his dream. His life’s work. The investment of all he had, his heart, his blood, his sweat and tears. After years of struggle, success beyond his wildest dreams was only a colt or two away. Colts that might not ever be. Unless a phone call could make the difference.

      “Unless,” he muttered, stepping into the moonlight.

      “What does that mean?” the older man questioned, his arm falling to his side.

      “Exactly that, Jesse. Unless.” Jackson walked, grimly, determinedly in a stilted pace toward the house. A tattered, historic treasure neglected in favor of barns and horses, but his.

      “Where in thunder are you going, Jackson Cade?”

      Without slowing his pace, Jackson called back over his shoulder, his voice grimly resigned, as stilted as his step. “To make a phone call. Eat some crow. Say a prayer.”

      “Care if I join you in the prayer part?”

      “You do that.” At the steps leading to the back door, Jackson swung about. Over the little distance, young eyes met old and held. “Thanks for coming tonight, Jesse. I know you tried.”

      “We both did, Jackson. What we could do just wasn’t enough.”

      Jackson drew a long, harsh breath, nodded again, then turned away from the night to climb steps of stone.

      The darkness of the house enveloped him, blocking him from sight, but the old cowhand still stood in the barn door. “Our bad luck was that your brother isn’t here. The good is that there is someone else.

      “Call,” Jesse urged softly in a whisper no ear but his would hear. “Take a chance. What you find just might be worth all the crow in the world.”