Boone’s tracks cut deep through the dust, leading straight toward the river bend. Rhett pressed his gelding harder, jaw tight, the thought of losing that damn stallion souring his mood. Boone had a mean streak, too smart for his own good, and if he’d bolted for the wild again, Rhett wasn’t sure he’d bring him back.

The thunder of hooves slowed as the sound of the river reached his ears. Rhett pulled up, chest heaving beneath his worn shirt, and caught sight of the stallion at last. Boone stood quiet at the water’s edge, dark coat glinting in the afternoon light.

But Boone wasn’t alone.

Someone else was there, standing by the stallion, hand resting against his muzzle. Rhett narrowed his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Boone never allowed strangers near him—hell, most ranch hands had scars to prove it. Yet here the horse stood, calm as a Sunday morning.

Rhett swung down from his saddle, boots hitting the earth with a solid thud. He let his spurs jangle in the silence, studying the figure by his horse. Suspicion tightened in his chest, but so did something else—curiosity.

“Damn horse,” he muttered under his breath, “Always full o’ surprises.”