I hope you don’t make a habit of changing plans at the last minute, Mr. Hollister. Consistency and order are important to me. Nevertheless—(never-the-freaking-less?)—I will do as you ask and arrive promptly at 9 a.m. S. Fletcher.

Cord set the phone on the nightstand with an annoyed thunk.

Great.

S. Fletcher was serious about learning what he had to teach, which was a good thing because the course was tough. Tough enough to weed out the wannabes and ensure that the ones who made it through were fit to work with horses.

She seemed a little on the snippy side, though, and that wasn’t so good, because it meant they were likely to butt heads along the way. But if S. Fletcher turned out to be a bossy pain in the butt, class would be dismissed early, either because she told him what he could do with his course and stormed off, never to be seen again, or because he returned her money and showed her the road.

Cord stretched, yawned and settled in to get a few hours of sleep.

He woke at 4:15 exactly, as always, threw back the covers and got out of bed.

After grabbing a cup of cold coffee, left over from the previous day and nuking it in the microwave, he showered, shaved, put on some clothes and returned to the kitchen, his boots dangling from his right hand.

The dogs were already at the kitchen door, yipping anxiously and wriggling their hind ends, so he let them out, then followed as far as the porch steps, where he sat down and tugged on his boots.

The horses—his own four and the two special boarders—would be wanting their feed.

Last night’s storm had blown itself out and the sun was about to rise, though it was still just a faint line of orange-red light rimming the eastern hills. The still-cool air smelled of hay and horsehide, wet grass and manure.

He’d lit the stove, and the pleasant scent of woodsmoke rode the breeze, too. Cord smiled to himself. Plenty of folks still chased off the early-morning chill—even in summer—by lighting a fire in a cast-iron stove, and he found that comforting.

He set aside his reheated coffee—he’d make a fresh batch when he was through with his chores—and headed for the barn.

The dogs gamboled alongside, delighted with themselves, with life in general.

Cord grinned, watching them.

Take a lesson, cowboy, he told himself. You’re alive and on your feet, and that’s reason enough to be happy.