Masked by Norah McClintock Page B

bunkhouse sleeping, closing the door softly behind me.
    The cold morning air stings my throat as I hobble across the grass to the main lodge. My feet are killing me. Heavy dew darkens my boots. God, it feels like winter’s coming already. I shiver, wishing I’d dug around to find my gloves.
    I push open the screen door leading to the kitchen. Steve, the morning cook, hands me a muffin on my way through. He’s nice enough but looks like he just escaped maximum-security prison. Who knows, maybe he did. They’re not particularly strict with their hiring practices around here. Steve has so many tattoos it’s hard to see any un-inked flesh on his arms. I like him though. He feeds me for free. The other cooks make you punch a meal card if you want so much as a package of saltines.
    â€œYou look like shit, Jill,” he says pleasantly.
    â€œKiss my chaps, kitchen boy,” I snarl over my shoulder.
    Steve laughs, then growls at me. “With pleasure.”
    Pit stop at the coffee machine. Then straight out to the barn. Hopefully there won’t be a nine o’clock ride. If there isn’t, I’ll be able to come back into the restaurant and eat a proper breakfast after I get the horses saddled.
    No one’s at the barn when I get there. I figured as much. Carrie and Laura downed a whole lot of beer last night. It’s not the first time they haven’t shown up for their shift. And I’m certain it won’t be the last either. They get away with murder, those two. Jerks. If I ever overslept and missed the start of my shift, I’d sure as hell hear about it. But they’re the queen bees, so I keep my head down and my mouth shut.
    Whiskey snorts in recognition when she sees me. I give her a quick brush, pitch a blanket and saddle onto her back and sling a bridle over her soft face.
    Where’s Kim? I’d almost be glad to see her grumpy butt marching around the corral this morning, swearing at random horses and kicking any that looked at her the wrong way. She’s a total cow. But I gotta say, she gets stuff done around the barn. If she was here, she’d have dragged Carrie and Laura out of bed by their long sexy hair. She’s the only one who’d dare.
    Now I remember. It’s Kim’s day off. Damn. No Kim, no Carrie, no Laura. No one else on the schedule. I’ll have to round up the horses on my own.
    All sixty of them.
    I swallow my butterflies and swing up onto Whiskey’s back. I turn her head toward the night pasture.
    I have no idea whether I’ll be able to gather up five dozen horses and herd them in one tidy bunch toward the barn. I’m not a born-and-raised cowhand by any stretch. As far as I know, nobody has ever rounded up on their own. Lucky me. But what else can I do? I can’t wait until one of the beautiful drunkards staggers in for her shift. That could be hours. By then there’ll be guests lined up along the corral fences, waiting for their trail rides.
    I’ve got to do it.
    When we get there, Whiskey and I run a quick perimeter check around the night pasture. I crack the whip and get them all moving toward the gate.
    I wait until every horse is crammed up against the fence, noses, necks and bums all crowded together in a warm shifting mass. Whiskey and I wedge our way along the fence to the gate. I hold my breath and flip the latch off the gatepost. The gate groans open, powered by a dozen hungry horses.
    I crack the whip. “Hyaaaaagh! Let’s go, boys! ”
    Startled, the horses bolt straight out of the gate and pound along the road leading to the barn.
    Right on. Go, Jill! I give Whiskey a kick and we lurch away, chasing the heels of the horses at the back. “Hyaaagh!” Over and over I shout and crack the whip. The horses thunder along the road, kicking up dust in the morning sunlight. They hammer into the main corral and spread out along the fences, content to be hemmed in again. I close the corral