OH, HELL! Devorah McGuire gripped the steering wheel of her truck, knuckles whitening as she felt the unexpected sway of her horse trailer behind her. Automatically, she tensed, taking her foot off the gas pedal and signaling to move onto the berm on the four-lane highway leading into Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The traffic at 9:00 a.m. on a Tuesday going into the popular tourist destination was fairly heavy. Everyone was heading into work, she supposed. Her buckskin mare, Goldy, was in the back of a two-horse trailer. She hadn’t heard one of the four tires blow out, but she’d sure felt it. Her trailer had two tires on each side to carry a horse’s weight.

Slowing, Dev eased the truck off onto the shoulder. It was wide enough to be able to pull the trailer safely out of traffic, and would allow her to walk around and inspect the trailer to see which tire had blown. She was worried what Goldy, her ten-year-old trail mare, thought about the sudden blowout, but Dev didn’t sense the horse was agitated. If a horse was stressed, it shifted nervously around in the trailer and it could be felt by the driver. The May Wyoming sky was threatening rain and she hoped to reach the Grand Teton National Park, about twenty miles north of Jackson Hole, before the cranky weather arrived.

Climbing out of the truck, dressed in Levi’s, a red flannel shirt and work boots, she pulled on her heavy winter coat because it was near freezing.

“Hey, girl,” Dev called to her mare as she walked to the blue-and-white trailer. “You okay?”

Goldy whickered, turning her head toward her.

Dev saw the blown tire right away. The trailer had a double axle to bear the weight of two one-thousand-pound animals. The front tire on the driver’s side was shredded. More concerned about her mare, Dev went to the other side, opened the side door that led into a small compartment where she could check on her horse and stow hay and other items. Dev smiled at Goldy. “Hey, girl, how you doing?”

Goldy whickered again, sticking her black nose forward toward Dev’s extended fingers. The mare had on a bright red nylon halter and the chain beneath it was fitted to a solid iron loop so she was not loose in the narrow stall.

“Did that scare you to death?” Dev asked her, gently rubbing the mare’s white blaze that divided the front of her dainty face. Goldy’s large brown eyes looked a little more unsettled than normal and Dev couldn’t blame her. Petting her and leaning forward, extending her hand across the mare’s thick winter-haired neck, she moved her long black mane aside. That touch would quickly settle her friend down, and so would her soothing, husky voice. The mare’s ears flicked back and forth and she began to relax once more beneath Dev’s long stroking motions across her neck.

“Heck of a welcome to our new digs, isn’t it, girl?” Dev asked, smiling at Goldy. The mare snorted and tossed her head.

Dev grinned and looked up, seeing a dark blue Ford pickup truck with a cab on the back of it pull up behind her. “We got company, big girl.” She gave Goldy one last pat and exited the compartment, shutting the door.

She noticed a tall man wearing a beat-up tan Stetson in the driver’s seat. On the side of his truck she saw the sign: Sloan Rankin, Farrier. He was a blacksmith. Rubbing her hands down the sides of her jeans in the cold wind, Dev watched him climb out of his truck. There was a big dog on the passenger side, looking somewhat like a German shepherd, ears pricked, watching intently through the windshield, fully focused on her.

The man was in his late twenties or maybe his early thirties, the Stetson he wore sweat stained around the crown and shaped so that the brim was set low over his pale blue eyes. He wore a green canvas barn coat, jeans and beat-up cowboy boots that were scuffed and well aged. Most of all, Dev liked the kindness she saw in his square weathered face. He wasn’t handsome but rugged looking, his eyes wide spaced, large and intelligent. His dark brown hair was cut short, brows straight across his eyes. She relaxed because she saw a faint smile tug at the corners of his well-shaped mouth as he approached her.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his Stetson. “I saw you blow a tire back there,” he continued, gesturing behind him. “You all right? Your horse okay?” And he halted about six feet from her, lifting his chin, sizing up the horse in the trailer.

“Yes, I’m fine and so is my mare, thanks. You must have good eyes to have seen it happen that far back.” She gazed up at him. The look in his blue eyes reminded her of a soft midday summer sky, and it warmed Dev for no obvious reason.

He shrugged. “My ma and pa always said I was part eagle.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sloan Rankin.”

Taking his gloved hand, she said, “Dev McGuire. Thanks for stopping.”

“Let me help you change that tire?” he said, releasing her hand. Looking toward the gunmetal-gray sky, he added, “Going to rain or snow shortly. Where do you keep your jack? In the forward compartment of your horse trailer?”

Dev nodded. Her heart wouldn’t settle down. The man had a soft drawl, not quite full Southern, but he was definitely not a northerner by the inflection in his deep, unhurried tone. “Yes, forward compartment. I can help you. I’m really used to doing this on my own.” She flashed him a slight smile of thanks as they walked toward the trailer.

“Well,” Sloan drawled, slowing his lanky pace for her benefit, “a woman shouldn’t have to change tires if she doesn’t have to.”

Dev pushed some of her shoulder-length black hair away from her face, the wind carrying it around her. “I appreciate the help, believe me.”

“Where you comin’ from?” he asked, halting and opening the door. He pointed at the license plate on the rear of the trailer.

Dev

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