Buffalo Summer. Nadia Nichols

was given a young woman from that village to be his wife.

      So the Bow and Arrow had been founded by a white man from Texas who had taken a full-blooded Crow as his wife, and his son from this union had married a Blackfoot, the sworn enemy of the Crow. And so Jessie Weaver, who had sold the ranch to Caleb McCutcheon, was of three worlds. Crow, Blackfoot and white. Pony had never met her but had wondered at such a legacy, for to carry the blood of three such disparate worlds could surely only create confusion. Yet Pony had heard only good things of this strong young woman.

      Steven had told her how Jessie Weaver had lost the ranch to falling cattle prices and her father’s skyrocketing medical bills as cancer had slowly robbed him of life. How she had quit veterinary school in her third year to take care of her ailing father. And how, after her father’s death, Jessie could have sold the ranch to developers and made a tidy profit even after the debts had been paid, but instead chose to write conservation restrictions into the deed and sell the ranch to Caleb McCutcheon at a huge loss in land value. She’d sacrificed a great deal—including her long-term relationship with Guthrie Sloane—to protect the place she loved, and Pony could understand and sympathize. In the end, Guthrie Sloane had, too; he and Jessie Weaver had reunited and were getting married in the fall.

      Sitting here in her rusty old truck, looking down the valley at this historic place, Pony felt a sense of wonder. To live surrounded by such beauty would surely give grace to the spirit. The Crow had first cast their shadows in this valley long ago, in the good years when the sun still shone upon them, in the years before the buffalo were gone. Her great-great-grandfather might have set his horse in this very spot and looked upon this same valley and felt the same way she did now.

      She put the truck in gear and drove slowly, not wanting to miss anything. She parked briefly at the place where the road first paralleled the creek and stood on the banks, listening to the rush of cold mountain water—happy music rippling over the smooth rocks lining the shallows. The air was cool and sharp with the tang of the tall evergreens that grew here. When she climbed back into the truck she felt relaxed. The tension that had been building in her at the prospect of speaking to Caleb McCutcheon had mysteriously vanished, and as she drove past the old cabin and headed toward the main ranch buildings, a curious calm settled over her.

      Maybe she would get the job. Maybe she wouldn’t. Whatever the outcome, she had made the journey, followed the path. She parked beside two other trucks, both Fords, both much newer than hers and she drew a steadying breath before climbing the porch steps of the weather-beaten ranch house. Hopefully Caleb McCutcheon himself would be available to speak with her. Pony knocked on the door.

      Which was opened almost immediately by a very fat old Mexican woman wearing a large and shapeless housedress and apron. A red bandanna covered most of her white hair.

      “Yes?” Her voice was gruff and her black eyes were not the least bit friendly.

      “I’ve come to speak with Mr. McCutcheon about the buffalo,” Pony said.

      The woman abruptly closed the door in her face. Pony waited, patient in the way she had learned to be. She looked down toward the pole barn and corrals. Horses grazed on piles of hay while curlews hopped amongst them on the ground, looking for something to eat. Below the barn, near the bend in the creek, she could see the roofline of the old cabin. Smoke curled lazily from the massive fieldstone chimney. Steven had told her that McCutcheon preferred to live in the original homestead but took his meals at the ranch house with the rest of them. She thought it was odd that he wouldn’t choose to live in the big house.

      The door opened, and Pony swung around. A man stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a notebook, eyebrows raised in a mute question. He was tall, lean and athletically built, with sandy-colored close-cropped hair, a neatly trimmed mustache and clear eyes the color of prairie flax with deep crow’s-feet etching the corners. His face was wind-burned, rugged and purely masculine. He was unexpectedly handsome, and she felt her heartbeat skip as she looked up at him and tried to remember why she was standing on his porch.

      “You’ll have to excuse Ramalda’s behavior,” he said, studying her with those keen blue eyes. “She doesn’t trust strangers, even small female ones.”

      “Mr. McCutcheon,” she said, her voice sounding tense because all of a sudden it mattered very much that she get this job. “I am sorry to bother you, but I had heard that you were looking for someone to help manage your buffalo.”

      “My buffalo?” If anything, her words seemed to confound him more than her presence on his porch.

      “Yes. Pete Two Shirts told me this. I worked for Pete on the reservation with the tribal herd.”

      His expression cleared somewhat at the mention of Pete’s name and he nodded. “Pete helped get me started with the buffalo,” he explained, “but when he returned to the reservation…” He paused for an awkward moment. “Well, to be honest, I guess I wasn’t expecting a woman. I mean, it’s just that…” He took stock of her again, his eyes narrowing in a critical squint. “Please,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing with the sheaf of papers. “Come inside.”

      Pony felt a flash of anger and shook her head. “If it’s a man you’re looking for, Mr. McCutcheon, I will not waste your time or mine.”

      She was surprised to see the color of McCutcheon’s face deepen. “I meant no offense,” he said.

      “It’s all right. I understand completely,” she said. “Of course you would prefer a man to manage your buffalo herd. A man is so much stronger than a woman, and strength is very important when dealing with the buffalo, especially when you wrestle them to the ground to brand them.”

      His forehead creased skeptically. “Brand them?”

      “And a man rides a horse so much better than a woman,” Pony continued, “because a man is so much stronger, and a horse truly appreciates brute strength.”

      “Now look…”

      “Mr. McCutcheon, if you talked to Pete Two Shirts, he would tell you that I know my stuff. And I would tell you this. I have five strong boys who would do your bidding for the summer. They would cost you nothing more than room and board. I was told you have a lot of work. If you have buffalo, you will need good boundary fences. Six strands of wire at least six feet high. Panels seven feet high would be even better, with wooden corner posts sunk into four feet of concrete. Putting up sturdy boundaries takes a lot of time and work, but without them, your herd might run clear to Saskatchewan.”

      “Look, why don’t you—”

      “And you’re right about the branding, Mr. McCutcheon. You don’t brand buffalo. But you do need a good set of corrals with an eight-foot-high fence and an indestructible chute of welded pipe, because even though they don’t get branded, they do need to be tested for brucellosis, tuberculosis and pregnancy. They need to be wormed and vaccinated. I know how to design such a set of corrals and a good chute. I know how big and how strong the buffalo are, Mr. McCutcheon, and how wild.”

      McCutcheon eyed her appraisingly. He ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Please, come in and have a cup of coffee. We can talk—”

      “I don’t drink coffee,” she said. “Why don’t you call Pete and ask him about me?”

      He nodded. “Okay.” He hesitated. “Won’t you at least come inside while I call?”

      “I’ll wait out here, thank you,” she said, not wanting to run into the unfriendly old Mexican woman.

      He nodded again, clearly perplexed. “Who should I tell Pete I’m checking on?”

      “Steven Young Bear’s sister,” Pony said.

      McCutcheon’s blue gaze intensified. “That’s why you look so familiar. I’ll be damned! Why didn’t Steven tell me you were coming?”

      “I asked him not to. I’ll wait here while you call Pete.”

      McCutcheon shook his head with a faint grin. “I don’t