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you hadn’t let that stallion steal my fillies.”
    Rafe’s complexion grew even more mottled. For a second there, Brett thought he’d press the issue. It would be a shame to lose one of the best wranglers he’d ever had, but one thing he never tolerated was having his decisions questioned, and every hand on the ranch knew it. If any one of them didn’t agree, he could pack up his spurs and head down the road. There were plenty of others willing to keep their mouths shut and their minds on their job instead of in the boss’s business.
    That thought must have occurred to Rafe, too, because he shoved his hat on his head, grabbed an ax from the wall by the door, and strode out the door without another word.
    Brett turned to the rest of the men watching the scene with a mix of wariness and discomfort. “Anybody else got a beef with the way I handle my business?” he challenged in a quiet tone that belied the anger simmering in his blood.
    Not a one spoke up. Obviously they valued their jobs.
    â€œThen Emilio, Flap Jack, and Tex, load up your gear. We’re heading out in fifteen minutes.”
    The men he’d chosen scrambled out the door faster than he could say tumbleweed.
    Brett followed, drawing in deep, even breaths in an effort to calm his temper. He didn’t know what angered him more—the slurs against Annie or the blatant disregard of his authority.
    The trouble with cutting Rafe from the crew was that it left him short a wrangler to tend the extra mounts each rider would bring. He already had every man he could spare—eleven in all—divided between himself and Tex.
    The only wrangler left was. . . .
    Brett closed his eyes and cursed. He had no choice. He’d have to bring Dogie.
    Â 
    â€œI can’t believe it!”
    Startled by the exclamation, Annie spun on the ball of one foot to face a lantern-jawed boy in his early teens wearing the loudest purple shirt she’d ever set eyes on. She’d been so preoccupied with eavesdropping on the conversation drifting through the bunkhouse window—and rattled at the way Corrigan had come to her defense—that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.
    â€œI just can’t believe I’m standin’ on the same spot of ground as Mustang Annie!” The boy grinned widely.
    Annie’s heart stuttered. Hell, did everyone know who she was? And why was he hollering at her? She pushed past him to fetch her saddlebags from an up-ended barrel. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” she muttered.
    â€œWhat?” He smacked the side of his head a couple times. “Sorry, since the explosion I don’t hear so good.”
    She raised her voice a notch. “I said, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
    â€œOh, no, I’d recognize you anywhere!” he insisted. “You probably don’t remember, but I met you a few years back, after you broke a mustang down by the Tongue River.”
    The Tongue River? She hadn’t been there since—oh, God, now she remembered. How could she have forgotten? She and Sekoda had gone down to trade a few mares and discovered a contest in progress. She never should have let Koda coax her into entering the competition, for it had made public her talents on horseback that she’d much rather have kept a secret.
    â€œI’m Dogie.” The kid swiped a sweat-and-soil-stained hat off his head. A shock of curly wheat-brown hair tumbled past his ears. “I tend the horses and tack.”
    She’d guessed that. Most wranglers started out young, learning the trade, building their skills. He seemed a little younger than most—no more than thirteen—but ranchers often employed their own relatives, and there was enough of a resemblance between him and Corrigan to hint at a kinship.
    â€œWade Henry says you’re gonna help us catch Ace’s fillies,” he said while she flipped her saddlebags