Montana Unbranded. Nadia Nichols

me it was a ranch.”

      “A huge ranch, with horses and buffalo. Steven’s sister started a school there, too, for Crow kids who weren’t making it in the reservation’s school system.”

      “Troubled kids?”

      “No. But special kids, for sure, especially Roon.”

      “I remember you mentioning him. The boy who talks to wild horses.”

      “And buffalo,” Molly added. “Roon sometimes helps Jessie Weaver on her rounds, now that she’s graduated vet school. Jessie used to own the Bow and Arrow until she sold it to Caleb, Pony’s husband. Then Caleb deeded half the ranch back to Jessie as a wedding gift when she married Guthrie Sloane, so now they co-own it. Guthrie helps Caleb and Pony run the ranch, and Jessie doctors most of the horses in Gallatin and Park counties. You should see her truck—it’s so cool. Anyhow, Roon’s so good with the animals Jessie says whenever he comes along with her on farm calls having him there cuts the need for tranquilizers by half.”

      Joe took another swallow of coffee, dizzy from trying to keep up with Molly. “What’s all this got to do with me teaching?”

      “Roon was one of the toughest cases at the Bow and Arrow. He had a big chip on his shoulder to start with and then he lost his little brother in a car accident. Pony had her hands full with him, but being out there at the ranch turned him around. So they started a school for kids like Roon. I think Pony and Caleb have about five or six kids living there now. They’ve built an actual schoolhouse next to the ranch, with an upstairs bunk room big enough to house all the boys. The kids help with ranch chores and spend part of their days in class, but only a small portion. Most of their learning takes place out of doors.”

      “Sounds like my kind of school, but I’m no teacher.”

      “Of course you are, Joseph. We all are. They have guest teachers out there all the time. Some like it so much they come back more than once. All you have to do is talk about what you do. Tell them what it’s like to be a big-city cop. Tell them what your work is like, what kind of education and experience you needed to land the job, tell them what you like and don’t like about it.”

      “Kind of like show-and-tell?”

      “Exactly.”

      “I’ll show ’em all my bullet holes and tell them to avoid a career in law enforcement.”

      “Joseph, that’s not the least bit funny.” She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “Anyway, when you’re done telling them all about your chosen career, you answer their questions and afterward you help with ranch chores. And then—” she paused for effect “—then you get to eat the most incredible meals west of our mother’s kitchen. They have a cook named Ramalda and she’s a real treasure.”

      “Good food?” Joe perked up at this.

      “Great food, and lots of it.”

      “Sounds like you visit there frequently.”

      “As often as I can, and I’ve taught there, too, several times. I told them all about law school and different choices of careers within law and Steven’s fight to save Madison Mountain from the mining industry. In exchange, the boys taught me how to throw a rope over a fence post... Well, they tried. I’m a terrible cowgirl. I rode horseback once up into their mountains to see the buffalo herd and it took me weeks to recover. But I love it out there. It’s a perfect place to raise kids.”

      “And this place isn’t?” Joe looked around the comfortable room and lifted his coffee mug to the view outside the picture window. “What more could you ask for?”

      Molly just smiled. “Wait till you see the Bow and Arrow.”

      * * *

      IT NEVER FAILED to amaze Dani how much food Luther Makes Elk could eat. She’d brought him enough to feed a family of six, and by the time she left, most of the Chinese take-out containers were half empty. He never said much when she arrived, didn’t speak while she unloaded the bags of food and the small gifts she always brought. And she left him how she found him—sitting on his wooden bench in front of his shack, hat pulled low and blanket over his shoulders, gazing back through time and into the future. He shook her hand when she got ready to leave, the way he always did. Slowly, with a solemn expression. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is nothing,” he said. Those were his only words the entire visit.

      The lack of talk didn’t bother her, though. She was a quiet person herself and always felt strangely revitalized by her silent visits with the holy man. Today was no exception.

      Now she headed south for the Arrow Root Mountains, the sun slanting off her right shoulder, settling toward the Absaroka Range, the Crow reservation off to her left. Her dogs had abandoned all their manners and were jockeying for position in the passenger seat, craning their eyes out the windows with mounting excitement.

      A convoluted series of dirt roads took her into the high country. This was a seldom traveled place, but she noticed fresh tire tracks today. She wasn’t the only one with spring fever. Eventually, rotting snowdrifts closed off the road and she could drive no farther. She parked where someone else had parked very recently. Footprints in the mud indicated one person had continued up the unplowed road and returned, probably within the past day. A ranger from the forest service had no doubt walked up to check on the cabin, knowing she’d rented it for the weekend. The dogs bounded out of the Subaru, sprinting in tight circles of excitement as she shrugged into her pack and balanced the tripod over her shoulder. It was three p.m. and they had another hour or so of hiking ahead of them before reaching the forest service cabin. With any luck she’d have her camera gear set up by sunset and would get some good shots of the band stallion, his mares and hopefully some new foals.

      She loved hiking in these mountains and photographing the mustangs that lived here. To Dani, they embodied the free spirit of the West, the part that would never be tamed. Her photographs had appeared in several major magazines, and she’d recently agreed to supply many more for a book that was being written about the wild mustangs of the West. The Bureau of Land Management, or BLM, had begun aggressive roundups in recent years to thin the population, but many felt their management goals were too low to maintain genetic diversity and long-term survival. The fight was on to preserve the purest strain of Spanish mustangs in North America, and Dani, through her love of horses, hiking and her photographic skills, had become a big part of it.

      Her spirits were as high as those of her dogs as they hiked through mountain mahogany and juniper. The scenery was spectacular. Mountains framed every scene. The Bighorn, Beartooth, Wind River and Absarokee. Spring was in the air and the yeasty smell of the land, warmed by the afternoon sun, wafted in an earthy ferment around her. She knew in the higher elevations the wind would be thundering over the land like a herd of wild horses. When she was here she felt as if maybe there wasn’t a city west of Saint Louis. As if, in the four-hour drive from Helena, she’d traveled back through two centuries. Sometimes she wondered if she just kept on hiking into the Arrow Roots, would she vanish into the past? She wondered if perhaps she hadn’t already lived here in another life and maybe that was why, when she was with Luther Makes Elk, she felt no need for words. The silence between them was comfortable.

      Sometimes the best thing you can do is nothing. His words came to her again as she took a breather. Luther didn’t say much, so when he spoke, she listened. As did everyone. He was, after all, a legendary holy man. What had he meant? Had Luther been referring to Molly’s brother Joe? Had he been telling her to leave the dark and dangerously handsome man well enough alone? Or had he been describing his own life, his days spent sitting on the old wooden bench in front of his shack, watching the occasional vehicle drive past?

      She shifted the tripod to her other shoulder and continued on. Her breath came in short, hard gasps as the trail steepened. Her thigh muscles burned and her shoulders were already sore. She was pathetically out of shape. Cross-country skiing was good exercise and a fine way to enjoy a long Montana winter, but nothing beat climbing uphill while shouldering a heavy pack. She hadn’t slept very well last night, but she had a feeling tonight would be different. Tonight