If Wishes Were Horses.... Judith Duncan

They had stood tall along Cripple Creek for decades—big, indestructible, able to withstand any storm. He respected their tenacity and durability. It was as if they were the silent sentinels, watching over Calhoun land. As if they were a fundamental part of it all.

      Just as he was. For forty years, he had breathed this clean mountain air and tasted Cripple Creek dust. Yeah, this land was as much a part of him, as he would, eventually, become a part of it.

      He had been born in the huge old Victorian ranch house, and he had spent his entire life in this part of southwestern Alberta, rooted in this ranching country. In fact, the Calhouns had been one of the original settlers in these parts, one of the American families who had been given huge land grants by the British Crown as an inducement to settle the rolling uncharted land. And there were many descendants of the settling families who still ranched in the district—the McCalls, the Ralstons, the Stewards, the Calhouns.

      Because of that inducement, his forefathers had come here and put down roots, just like those old cottonwoods. His ancestors had been running huge herds of cattle when that part of western Canada was still a territory. And the Calhouns had been there ever since. Still ranching, still running huge herds of cattle, still part of the never-ending landscape. And although he would never admit it to a living soul, Conner considered it both an honor and a privilege to carry on that heritage—as had his father before him, his grandfather before that, and his great grandfather before that. He felt he had a responsibility to all those who had gone before him, to provide good stewardship of this land.

      Impatient with his rider’s stillness, the big gelding pranced and yanked on the bit, his hooves striking against a rocky outcropping. A small twist of humor lifted the corner of Conner’s mouth, and he reached forward and patted his mount’s neck. “Getting antsy, are you, old boy?” Big Mac tossed his head and pranced again, and Conner responded with another half smile. He got the message. Big Mac had been on enough roundups to know his owner had picked one helluvah time to go woolgathering, when a year’s crop of calves and their mommas were heading toward the home pasture.

      Picking up the reins, Conner cued his mount forward, and Big Mac instantly responded, lunging down the hill, stirring up more dust as he headed toward two stragglers grazing down by a ring of willows. Conner grinned. Right on the money. He’d had cowhands who weren’t as smart as this horse.

      By the time Conner was ready to pack it in for the day, the sun had settled behind the horizon, setting the gathering clouds on fire. He had been in the saddle since dawn, and he was feeling every second of it. It had been a very long day, and he’d had his fill of range-ornery cows, heat, dust and, most of all, the new saddle he was using. A damned stupid thing to do—to use a brand-new saddle on a cattle drive. But his foreman had a bad hip, and his favorite old roping saddle suited Jake better. The good thing was that Conner’s butt had gone numb hours ago.

      Turning Big Mac in a pivot, Conner did another pass of the herd, narrowing his eyes in the fading light as he surveyed the cattle, relying on his years of experience to detect anything amiss. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned his mount toward the lone figure of his foreman hanging over the pole gate at the north side of the pasture.

      The effects of a fourteen-hour day in the saddle and some hard riding immediately piled in on him, and Conner wearily rolled his shoulders and glanced toward the western horizon. From the fading colors of the sunset, he figured it had to be after 9:30 p.m., maybe even later. Damn. Another day gone.

      He shifted against the stiffness and rested his free hand on his thigh, thinking how the time had disappeared. There just weren’t enough hours in the day this time of year. It had been the better part of a week since he had made it into Bolton to visit his stepmother, and there was just no excuse for that. Although she tried not to show it, he knew that Mary worried if she hadn’t heard from him in awhile. And worrying about him was the last thing she needed.

      She was only in her late sixties, but she had been fighting arthritis for many years, and a couple of years ago, she had decided to move into an assisted-care facility in Bolton. He had wanted to get home care for her so she could stay on the ranch, but Mary had been adamant.

      And even though it was her decision to move into Bolton, Conner knew that she missed Cripple Creek, especially at this time of year. She had played an active part on the ranch for a lot of years, and had gone on more than her fair share of cattle drives. A skilled and fearless horsewoman, she could ride with the best of them. Though the choice to leave had been hers, he knew her heart was still here, planted in Cripple Creek soil.

      Beginning to feel as if he’d gone a few rounds with a bucking bronc, Conner pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the dust and sweat from his face, then jammed it back in his pocket. He recalled a bright yellow patch of buffalo beans he’d seen at the edge of the driveway, and he made a mental note to pick Mary a bunch of the flowers the next time he went to town. They were particular favorites of hers— “spring sunshine,” she’d always said.

      The fiery sunset reflected off the windshield of the pickup parked alongside the fence, and the sound of country music blared from the radio within. A bantylegged man stood at the gate, one booted foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms hooked over the top one. His battered Stetson was tipped low over his eyes, and he had a piece of straw stuck in his mouth. As horse and rider approached, the Cripple Creek foreman undid the rope hitch and swung the gate open, leaving a space just wide enough for Conner to ride through. A grin split Jake Henderson’s weathered face, and he spit out the straw he’d been chewing. “Took you long enough. What was you doing out there? Picking posies?”

      Experiencing a twist of humor at how close his foreman had come to the truth, Conner guided the gelding through the gate, giving Jake a firm reprimand. “I thought I sent you to the house two hours ago, with specific instructions to get into that hot tub of yours.”

      Jake swung the gate closed and fastened it. “Hell, Conner. The wife would skin me alive if she knowed you was still aworking out here, and I was lazing in the tub. She just might turn up the heat and cook my hide for me.”

      Backing the horse away from the fence, Conner watched the older man, another flicker of amusement surfacing. Jake had been telling the same tale about Henny for over thirty years—ever since he’d come to work for Conner’s father at the Cripple Creek Ranch. Jake and his stories were an institution.

      Hunching over, Conner stacked his forearms on the saddle horn and narrowed his gaze at the older man. His tone was stern when he spoke. “I don’t want you out here again tonight, Jake. You get one of the hands to check the herd.”

      The foreman looked a little peeved. “I ain’t an old woman yet, boss.” He smacked the hood of his truck. “Me and ol’ Bessie here will do that check on our own, thank you very much. I don’t trust that bunch to find their butts with a road map, a spotlight and both hands, let alone check this here herd.”

      The laugh lines around his eyes creasing, Conner continued to watch as Jake Henderson climbed into his truck. “You never listen to a damned thing I say, do you?”

      Jake grinned and gunned the engine to life. “Not if I can help it.” He pointed to the big, muscled, high-spirited buckskin Conner was riding. “Now you take that puny little horse of yers to the barn and give him his sissy bath. His feelings will get all hurt if he don’t get his bath.” Throwing the vehicle into reverse, the foreman gave Conner a two-finger salute and roared backward toward the buildings, trailing another cloud of dust.

      Conner watched his foreman skillfully maneuver up the rutted trail; then he picked up the reins, cueing his mount forward, a wry smile appearing. He wondered if Jake was ever going to let up on Big Mac. Probably not.

      True, most working horses preferred a good roll in the dirt after getting rid of their saddles after a hard day. Not Big Mac. Big Mac liked a good, long hosing down, and the longer the better. His shower habits had become the butt of some well-thought out Cripple Creek Ranch pranks. Like bath mitts and shower caps.

      Once again aware of the numbness in his rear, he turned his horse toward the trail that led up to the barn. He didn’t know about Big Mac, but for him, it was definitely time to