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front of him, he’d surely swerve to miss it.
    â€œJen, you don’t think that accident with the horse trailer…?” Sam couldn’t force herself to finish the sentence.
    â€œNo way,” Jen said. “He’s towing your dad’s trailer. He’d never risk Wyatt’s good opinion of him. Besides, if Jake were in trouble, he wouldn’t call the sheriff.”
    Sam couldn’t help giggling as she pictured Jake walking for help, muttering that buckaroos should never do anything except on horseback.
    â€œSam, it wasn’t him. Don’t even think about it,” Jen said.
    At a touch, Jen had Silly swinging into an about-face, headed back toward camp. Sam turned Ace and followed.
    Â 
    As they rode down, the herd of cattle was coming up the trail.
    The horned heads of the leaders marked them as steers used in the rodeo’s bulldogging event, but most of the others were Hereford cows and calves, which would be used in the roping competitions.
    Two outriders wearing black shirts with blue-green script spelling out “Ryden Rodeo Productions” flanked the herd.
    They don’t look like they need a bit of help, Sam thought.
    â€œHal’s riding drag, waiting for your report,” one of the riders called out as they approached.
    Jen touched her hat brim like the experienced hand she was, but Sam just smiled as they rode past.
    Jen gestured for Sam to ride down one side of the herd while she rode down the other. They split up, Sam figured, because a single rider disturbed the herd less than two of them would. Cattle, like most prey animals, responded to possible danger by moving away from it. Wild cattle perceived even faint hand movements from a rider on a ridge as a hazard. Sam had learned that the hard way.
    But this herd stayed calm.
    Nodding and plodding, the cattle moved at a steady pace, ignoring the chatter of less experienced riders ranged along the side of the herd.
    Ace danced with impatience. He obeyed her hands and legs, heading steadily for the rear of the herd, but if a horse could trot on the tips of his hooves, he was.
    â€œThey’re getting along fine without you,” she told the bay, but the words were no sooner out of her mouth than she heard what she’d said.
    Sam leaned down until her chin touched Ace’s coarse black mane, and whispered, “They are, but I could never get along without you.”
    Just the thought of losing Ace made her heart feel empty, but the gelding was in no mood to think of anything but cows.
    As they jogged past two riders, Sam overheard them talking.
    â€œWhat are those little white-faced ones with the perpetual ‘Huh?’ expression on their faces?” the dude asked.
    â€œThem’s Herefords, ma’am. And the rest of the herd is kinda mixed. We’ve got Charolais, Brahma, and Angus, but mostly crosses of some kind.”
    Suddenly Ace’s head tilted right, as if he were listening. But he wasn’t eavesdropping. He’d noticed a horse ridden many lengths out from the herd. Ace sucked in a long draught of air, analyzing it for the horse’s scent.
    The other horse was a huge bay. He moved at a walk, but his ears pricked forward with eagerness. He’d come a long way from the neglected animal with a tangled mane and bleeding poll who’d almost been sold for pet food, but Sam recognized him.
    â€œTinkerbell!” Sam gasped, then turned Ace toward the giant horse.
    On the first day she’d seen Tinkerbell, he’d acted clumsy and ashamed of his size. The men handling him had called him a “big oaf” as they unloaded him from a too-small trailer. None of the tack at River Bend had fit him, and even when Sam had led him into the biggest box stall in the barn, he’d filled it up.
    But those days were over. Grooming, good food, and gentle care had helped, but when Tinkerbell had shown Sam that jumping was what he was meant todo, everything had changed.