Chapter 2: The Trick

Morning came cool and bright, the kind of day when the desert seemed almost gentle. A thin mist clung to the corral rails, and Calista Brant stood with her boots planted firm in the dust, studying the black stallion within.

Nightwind pawed the ground, ears flicking, muscles shifting under his dark hide like coiled rope. His eyes were sharp, not wild — calculating. That, Calista decided, was what made him dangerous. He wasn’t afraid. He was thinking.

“Well, you clever devil,” she muttered, tightening the gloves over her bruised knuckles. “Let’s see how clever you really are.”

She didn’t rush him this time. Instead, she carried a length of soft rope, a brush, and an apple she’d split clean down the middle. She spoke softly, her tone smooth as creek water, never raising her voice. She moved slow, careful — a dance between patience and daring.