Gena Dalton - Midnight Faith

“I can blanket this horse,”

Clint said sharply.

Cait glanced up at him, held his gaze.

“You can certainly ride him,” she said sincerely. “You two looked like poetry out there.”

Her words stunned him. So did the pleasure that ran through him.

“Compliments don’t excuse you sneaking up on me,” he muttered.

She grinned. “Don’t worry, Clint,” she said. “I won’t tell your secret.”

“Tell whatever you want,” he snapped.

She chuckled and handed him the buckle strap. “So you’re not vulnerable to blackmail?”

He snorted. “As if you’d need blackmail, Cait. I’m thinking a bulldozer’s more your style.”

She straightened suddenly, at the very same time he did, and smiled at him across the horse.

He couldn’t keep from watching her smile and noticing the sparkle in her dark eyes. In fact, he couldn’t move a muscle. Suddenly all he could do was look at Cait.

GENA DALTON

wanted to be a professional writer from the time she learned to read at the age of four. However, she became a secondary school teacher and then a college professor/dean of women instead, and began to write only after she was married and became a stay-at-home mother. She entered an essay contest, which resulted in a newspaper publication that gave her confidence she could achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a “real writer.”

Gena lives in Oklahoma with her husband of twenty-four years. Now that their son is grown, their only companions are two dogs, two house cats, one barn cat and one cat who belongs to the neighbors but won’t go home.

She loves to hear from readers. She can be reached c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th floor, New York, NY 10017.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

He went on to say, “What is the kingdom of God

like? What shall I compare it with? It is like a

mustard seed, which a man took and threw into

his garden; it grew and became a tree, and the

birds of the air sheltered in its branches.”

—Luke13:18-19

For my sisters,

Linda and Bonnie

Dear Reader,

This story of the oldest McMahan brother, Clint, and Cait McMahan, who is his widowed sister-in-law, is one that touches my heart. At some time in all our lives we reach a midnight hour that tests our trust and makes us reach for our faith, even if it seems as small as a mustard seed.

From the moment Cait comes back to the Rocking M Ranch with her newly bought horses and her heartfelt plans to establish a horsemanship school for troubled teenagers, Clint is trying to find a way to trust her and the feelings between them—as well as to trust God to direct the decisions that he always feels are his responsibility alone.

While you are reading Clint and Cait’s story, I’m writing about Clint and Jackson’s brother, Monte, who finally comes home after six long years of barely communicating with the family. I hope you will look for his story, Long Way Home, coming in February 2003.

Please let me know how you like this book. I would love to hear from you. You can reach me c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017.

All best wishes,

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Something was definitely wrong when a man had to sneak around before daylight to ride a horse on his own place.

It added to his pleasure, though. Clint whistled a tune, very softly, as he led the tall black colt out of the barn toward the indoor arena, its hooves echoing out into the frosty air until they left the asphalt for the gravel. Then the sound lessened to a muted, homey plop.

His guess would be that sitting in the saddle on this lanky rascal would be anything but homey, though. His heartbeat sped up. This colt might be the biggest challenge of all the two-year-olds on the ranch this year.

The black snorted, shook his head and spooked at the kitten that came tumbling out of the tack room ahead of its brother. Then he kicked up behind when Clint tied him.

“Now, now,” Clint said, grinning, “give me a chance to take a seat before you get to bucking, all right?”

He gave the colt a pat on the neck—which bothered him so much he pinned his ears—and went to get the saddle. The tune he kept whistling was “Two-Step around the Christmas Tree,” which he couldn’t get out of his head and which irritated him to no end. If it was left up to him, they’d just skip Christmas this year here on the Rocking M.

Clint slapped that thought right out of his head with his usual skill. Right now would be the best time of his Christmas Eve and he was going to enjoy it without thinking ahead. Or back.

It added a little spice to life, having a secret vice, and it amused him every day. So far, neither of the trainer’s assistants had stepped down off a colt and wondered aloud if somebody else had already ridden him.

Mainly because the idea was inconceivable. The least-skilled horsemen on the trainer’s staff, the assistants to the assistant, started the colts because nobody else wanted that hard, dangerous job. They were young and their bodies could take it.

Clint grinned again. It’d blow everybody’s minds, for sure, to know that the ranch’s owner was doing that work, and he would surely get a kick out of telling them. He couldn’t, though, because it would insult the hands whose duty it was, implying that they weren’t doing their jobs. It would also insult the trainers who supervised those hands, and they’d accuse him of messing up their training programs for these horses.

More to the point, they’d all probably leave the Rocking M and go somewhere else because Clint had not respected their territory. He wouldn’t take that chance—winning trainers who brought attention and celebrity to the ranch were hard to find.

His grin faded. Always, always and forever, he had to do what was good for the ranch.

Sometimes he felt he was the ranch and not a person anymore.

The colt stood, although his ears were still pinned. He let Clint ease the saddle and pad onto him and cinch him up before he kicked out again. Clint’s heart made a triple beat. This one would be the liveliest of the bunch.

He’d sensed that all along, which was why he’d left him for last, he supposed. If the black dumped him and he broke a bone, he would already have had the excitement of riding the others.

He untied the colt and led him into the indoor arena, closed the gate behind them and reached over the fence for a bridle hanging on the rack. The black stood quietly while he exchanged it for the halter, then walked just as quietly as he led him farther into the pen.

After arranging the reins, Clint took hold of the horn and the cantle and lifted his weight onto the saddle, hanging off the side of the horse. No problem. The black didn’t even move—forward, back or sideways.

Clint stepped up into the saddle.

Both feet set in the stirrups, he shifted carefully back and forth. Nothing.

He settled his weight into the depth of the seat. No movement from the young horse. Maybe he’d been entirely wrong about him.

Clint made himself take in a deep breath and then wait, letting it out slowly. The whole, quiet, darkest-before-dawn world waited with him to see what this colt would do.