Brock didn't see Payton for several days, though he’d expected to. After the situation at the pond, he thought she'd pop up somewhere and try to put him on the spot, but she didn't.

In spite of his thoughts, he was both relieved and disappointed that he didn't see her. His mom and dad headed to Amarillo for their little escape. Dad had written out a list of things for him to keep an eye on, most of which Brock had already been aware of. He waved them down the driveway, hoping they had an enjoyable time.

Dad was getting around better now, though he still had a long way to go. The mobility was coming back to the arm, but it would be months before he was truly recovered. And he still had to wear the awkward brace that held the arm at a certain angle.

Brock clicked to the little filly in the ring. She was moving out nicely, but definitely seemed to prefer traveling to the right rather than the left. That was okay. Most horses preferred one direction over another. He'd just have to work with her more.

Training horses was his greatest passion. There was nothing like going over and over something, and having it finally click in the horse's mind.

Training the mustangs gave him the greatest sense of accomplishment. When the Bureau of Land Management gave him problem horses that they were otherwise going to destroy, Brock invested a lot of time into connecting with them. They were usually the most aggressive, wily, and least desirable horses left on the lot. Some had major medical issues. Most of them were minutes away from being shipped to a slaughterhouse.

If Brock had his way, none of them would go to slaughter, but it was a difficult balancing act the government did. The wild horse population had exploded, and there were more horses than were tenable for the range provided for them.

Also, unfortunately, people weren't adopting as often anymore, so the wild horses and burros that were gathered to reduce the stress on the wild populations were not finding homes with private citizens. Instead, they were sitting in BLM operated holding facilities and racking up maintenance bills. The average cost to house a wild mustang was forty-eight thousand dollars per horse per lifetime. That was astronomical.

Brock wished he had more room and time because he would adopt as many as he could.

Unfortunately, the full-blooded Quarter Horses they trained were what brought in the money. Jackson had just had a sale go through of a young colt, a Futurity prospect with an outstanding bloodline, for almost a hundred thousand dollars. That was incredible, and a testament to Jackson's growing fame as a trainer.

Brock had a few prospects that would go for a little less, probably. He could tell that all but one were going to be outstanding cutting horses. The last, Penny, was going to be a pet no matter what he did. She would do what she was guided to do, but she didn't have the heart for cutting cattle.

She might end up being a western pleasure horse or broodmare. She had an incredible pedigree and it would be a shame to waste it.

The little filly in front of him had begun to tire, so he allowed her to stop and come to him. Scratching under her chin, he murmured to her softly. She nibbled at his shirt, lipping one button over and over again, before biting it. He pushed her head away, but she was persistent, and eventually broke the snap before he managed to push her away.

"Damn it horse. Why'd you do that?"

She tossed her head as if laughing at him. Ruffling her forelock, Brock headed toward the gate of the round pen. The little filly rubbed her head against his back, right between his shoulder blades. "You better be good," he warned.

There were no further incidents as he led her toward the washing area. After he hosed her down, he'd let her cool off in the stall before moving her back outside. It had been a good training session so he'd baby her a little.

The rest of the day was filled with odd jobs. The farrier was coming to work on a few horses later, so he had one of the hands move them in from the paddocks. There was paperwork that needed filed with the accountant on the cattle they'd taken to auction. A fairly significant check they’d gotten needed deposited into the bank.

Payroll was coming up this Friday and he needed to decide what to do about a couple of hands. Taylor, the guy who'd won money on a scratch off ticket had hared off to Mexico. Brock got a text from him the other day wondering if he still had a job. Brock hadn't decided yet.

He needed to talk to Jackson to see if they actually needed Taylor back, but the foreman was up on the north pasture reinforcing fence. He wasn't due back until tonight.

Brock glanced at the clock on the wall. He had an hour before the farrier came.

Switching gears to get away from paperwork, he headed toward the smaller barn he'd built a few years ago for his mustangs. It was basically a covered paddock, with a smaller training ring nestled into one corner.

The fences were high to contain the animals, as required by the BLM, and the fence panels themselves along the exterior wall were lined with black tarp, but it was a wide open space. A paddock on the far end allowed them access to grass, but they were fed hay and grain as well. There were a few strategically placed gates that could separate the animals into smaller groups if need be.

When the horses first arrived they very often had never been handled before, so they needed to be herded wherever they needed to go.

This was a new group of animals he'd picked up from a holding facility in Oklahoma about a month ago. There was a wide range of colors and sizes, but all of the animals were underweight and skittish. One of the geldings had developed an infection after being gelded at the holding facility, so he'd been the first fight they'd engaged in. Antibiotics had to be administered and water-soluble medication was hit-and-miss, so they'd had to tranquilize him to care for the wound. While he'd been out of it Brock had trimmed his hooves and floated his teeth. Another horse had an abscess under his belly from some unknown injury. It needed to be worked on. He did his best to let them acclimate as naturally as possible, but sometimes medical issues needed intervention before the horses were completely settled in.

As soon as he walked through the barn door, one of the mares whickered a warning to the rest of the herd. There were no stallions in here, just mares and geldings. For the most part they got along, but there was always some strife as the mares worked out who was in charge. The current boss mare, he'd named her Violet, pricked her ears and swung to face him from yards away.

Brock moved confidently, avoiding eye contact with her. If the mare felt threatened, she would take the herd out of his sight to the far end of the paddock. It was too hot to go chasing after them today, so he worked his way around to the gate control and pressed a button. The heavy metal door slid shut across the end of the barn.

The mare didn't like that so the herd started milling, looking for an escape. Climbing up over the fence, Brock walked to the middle of the ring. Violet stared at him the entire time. He could feel her watching, but he never made eye contact himself. He wasn't sure exactly how old Violet was. Her foster papers had said at least nine, so she was in the prime of her life. But she'd probably never been treated kindly by any man.

Brock was determined to change that.

For an hour, he sat patiently in the middle of the paddock on a plastic chair. The animals eventually calmed and a few even moved a few yards closer. One daring young gelding got close enough to lip the cloth at his shoulder. Brock barely dared to breathe. The little horse moved to his side, snuffling down against his chest, then just let his head hang, as if looking for reassurance.

"Looking for a little testosterone, huh buddy?" Brock murmured.

The little horse snorted but didn't move away, so Brock continued to talk to him. Then, after about ten minutes he dared to look at the horse for a moment. No fear response. Pushing the envelope he lifted a hand out in front of himself, then curled it back around to brush at the horse's muzzle. He stayed totally calm. Brock frowned, wondering why the little horse wasn't bolting.

Maybe one of the hands had been hanging around… or Jackson. Brock had never outright banned anyone from coming to the 'wild barn' as he liked to think of it, but most of the men knew that he liked to break in the feral horses himself. It was his ‘pet project’, though none of these horses could be considered pets.

Maybe this one had had some interaction with humans in the holding facility. It was so hard to tell. When Brock received the horses, he knew when they had been rounded up and where, and he knew any medical care they'd received in the lot. But the rest of their history was a blank void.

Many times the holding lot where the animal was picked up was not the lot they were placed in after being caught. Some animals moved several times across the country throughout their lives in search of homes.

The little gelding allowed the scratch, then allowed him to run a hand up his cheek. He didn't pull away until Brock got almost to his ears. Yeah, those were sensitive.

"Ok, buddy," he whispered, his heart aching for the little horse that was just looking for comfort.

Brock shifted in his chair and stood. The little gelding snorted and backed away, but didn't bolt. That was a really good sign. He just stood there a minute, then deliberately turned his back to the colt. He wanted the animal to feel like Brock was the man in charge, and that it was important to be in the man in charge's herd.

Though he had his head turned away, out of his peripheral vision he could see the little gelding take a step toward him, following him. Brock paused then took a few more steps away, lifting his head. He could feel Violet and her crew watching him, waiting, but he was more concerned with the horse behind him right now.

There were a few halters hanging outside the gate. If the little dude kept following him like a puppy, maybe he could get a line on him....

The mare bugled, calling him back, and the quiet moment was ruined. The gelding took off at a trot, looking behind him as he did, as if waiting for Brock to chase after him.

Yeah, he should have known that wasn't going to happen. Sighing, he headed toward the gate. It was probably about time for the blacksmith anyway.

---

Caleb Lucas pulled into the barn lot in his bright red truck just as Brock got to the barn. The truck was equipped with a diamond plate steel shell that opened up on each side, showing shelves of materials and tools. In the center of the bed, between the two sloping sides, was the portable forge. It was on a hydraulic arm and could be pulled from the bed of the truck then heated in the open air. There was a heavy anvil mounted to the back bumper of the truck where Caleb could shape the shoes he heated in the forge. It was a pretty ingenious little setup.

Old Roger had been the last farrier, and he'd always seemed older than dirt. There was a reason for the name. He'd been old when Brock was a kid, and had finally retired two years ago, still spry at seventy-two. Being a farrier was a tough job anyway. Brock couldn't imagine doing it with arthritis tightening his joints and all the other aches and pains he knew Roger had had. The man was more bow-legged than any other man he'd ever seen after years of riding horses, but still got out everyday and headed to Sophia's for breakfast and socializing. It was one of the places his father liked to hang out as well. Before the heart-attack, anyway.

Mama had clamped down on Dad's diet, and Sophia's served heavy-duty home-style cooking. There were a few healthy things on the menu, but they definitely weren't as popular as Sophia's home cooking.

Caleb, the new guy, had apprenticed with Old Roger for several months before the old man retired, so he knew the clientele and what they needed. Every six weeks, like clockwork, Caleb pulled onto the farm, ready to work.

"Hey, Brock."

"Hey, Caleb. Got a couple ornery ones for you today."

Caleb looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Bring ̓em on. I'll get the forge warmed up."

Brock shook his head at Caleb's enthusiasm. He was a big man, probably had an inch on Brock, but definitely outweighed him. His hands were the size of frying pans, and the sleeves of his cowboy shirt had been ripped off to give his heavily muscled arms room to move. Brock wished he'd have had Caleb as back-up the other night. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten his ass kicked so royally.

Caleb wouldn't have been in that bar though. It was a not exactly a secret that Caleb preferred with steers to heifers. Brock didn't care. The man did a good job on his horses and that was all that mattered.

Sean Whelan, the new hire, had already retrieved one of the horses from the paddock outside. This was one of the mustangs Brock wanted to give the equine therapy ranch. The horse was larger than the normal mustang, broad through the rump and chest, like he'd been bred with a Quarter Horse. He had more height than a Quarter though. His chocolate brown coat had shed out the dead hair and now shone bright and glossy under the sun shining in the end of the barn. That was always one of the most drastic changes he saw when he took in the feral horses. As soon as they started on regular grain and hay, they began to fill out.

This gelding had kind eyes, dark around them and his muzzle. His mane and tale were black, his hard hooves black, too. Over the past couple of weeks Brock had been training him to pick up his hooves and stand for maintenance, but this would be the first time that he would be treated to a real farrier. Though the horse had calmed considerably in the eight weeks he'd been working with him, there was always a chance he could spook at something Caleb did. They would have to watch the horse closely.

"What's this one's name," Caleb asked, carrying his handled box over and setting it on the ground in front of the horse. He also retrieved a hoof stand, but set that to the side for the moment.

"This is Cocomo. Mo for short."

Sean stood to one side as Caleb started to talk to the horse. Mo seemed accommodating and easy with everything Caleb showed him, so the blacksmith moved to the side of the horse and ran his hand down the front leg. Mo shifted his weight and allowed the foot to be picked up.

This was a major accomplishment for Brock. Wild mustangs lived and died on the speed of their feet. The fact that Mo was allowing a predator to restrain one of his feet, on the trust that Brock had built into him, was really something.

Mo did beautifully, allowing Caleb to do anything to him he wanted. The only time he spooked was when Caleb tossed the rasp into the box and it clanked especially loud. It was jarring in the quiet of the barn and Mo shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the cross-ties. But a quiet word calmed him and Sean led him back to the stall.

The next mare didn't do nearly as well, and it took a lot of patience and time to get her trimmed. But then, she'd only been in training for about a month, not nearly as long as Mo. Brock wouldn't have put her on the list this time but she had a nasty crack running the length of her hoof wall to the coronary band, and it needed to be trimmed and shaped. By the time Caleb was done, Brock could tell that the mare was already stepping better.

They shifted to the working Quarters, who were well versed in standing for the farrier. Caleb went through them quickly.

"I just came from Payton's place," he said into the quiet. "She's waitin' on the vet to come out. Told me to come out next week instead."

Brock frowned. "What happened?"

Caleb shrugged. "Not sure exactly. That little mare she has got injured somehow. Has a gaping hole in her chest. Gonna need stitches at least."

Brock clenched his jaw, looking out at the waning afternoon. Maybe he should run over there and check on her. He shook his head at his worry. No, she'd be fine.

But if he ran over just for a minute he, couldn’t he be back before Caleb was done? Maybe.

"Sean, are you okay helping him finish?"

The tall man nodded. "Yes, sir. We only have a couple left anyway. Go check on Ms. Payton."

Brock wasn't sure he liked being so transparent, but just for today, he'd let it pass.

"Caleb, your check is on my desk. Just fill out the amount and I'll see you in a few weeks."

Caleb gave him a wave as he headed out. Brock climbed into his truck and took off.