Storm Chaser by Chris Platt Page A

the sagebrush line. “We’ll stop right here and wait for her,” she said. Rusty dropped his head and cropped a small tuft of desert grass at their feet. “Eat now, while it’s still green,” she told him as she let Rusty pull her along to the next bunch of greenery. “As hot as it’s getting, it won’t be long before it’ll all be dried up and yellow.”
    It always amazed her that the high desert could be so green at the start of summer, and yet within six to eight weeks would take on the muted gold and tan colors of a drought-ridden state. It wouldn’t be long before her father would take their cattle to the high mountain pastures nearby. Without that rich mountain grass, they’d have a tough time putting weight on the calves before they sent them to market.
    Jessica watched the filly pick her way gingerly down the path, remembering the mad dash the paint had made into the lightning-filled hills the night the barn burned just a few days ago. “I think I’ll call you Storm Chaser,” she said when the horse came within earshot. “Chase for short.”
    At the sound of her voice, Storm Chaser pricked her ears and stared at her with intelligent eyes. Jessica’s heart melted. Chase was the most beautiful horse they’d ever had on this ranch. She reached over to rub Rusty’s neck. Not that she didn’t love Rusty with all her heart. All horses had their own beauty, but the gelding didn’t have the conformation of a purebred, and his coat was plain.
    Chase’s short, well-shaped head and her broad chest and hindquarters showed her quarter horse ancestry. A paint horse could only be registered with the American Paint Horse Registry if it had quarter horse or Thoroughbred lineage. If there were any other breed in the line, it had to go to the Pinto Registry.
    The filly stopped twenty feet from where they stood. Rusty nickered a warm welcome and Chase returned the gesture. Jessica tugged on the gelding’s halter. “Let’s show her the way home, old man.”
    Her father was the only one left in the stable yard when they returned. He watched their approach, and Jessica knew he was assessing the filly’s limp, trying to determine how badly she’d injured it.
    â€œLet her follow Rusty into his pen,” her father said.
    Jessica smiled. It made sense that the two horses needing care would be put in the same pen—and they just happened to be her two favorite horses on the ranch. Chase seemed at ease with Rusty, and it would certainly make it easier for Jessica to get acquainted with the pretty paint.
    Her dad opened the gate to the corral and waited for them to enter. “She seems to like the old guy, and he’s definitely taken a shine to her,” he said. “Rusty’s calm influence will help in getting this filly gentled, and maybe the company will give Rusty something to live for.”
    Jessica wanted to shout with joy. Now would be the perfect time to ask her father again about training. She removed the halter from Rusty’s head and turned back to face her father. “Um, Dad, since Storm Chaser is going to be sharing a pen with Rusty, would it be okay if I started working with her?”
    Jessica cringed inside as soon as the paint’s new name escaped her lips. She drew a deep breath, watching the way her father’s eyes narrowed. He’d warned her a million times not to name the new horses or get too attached to them. Jessica crossed her fingers, praying he’d ignore her slip-up and say yes to the training.
    â€œJess, I know you mean well, honey…”
    He might as well have put his thoughts in neon lights over his head. She knew what was coming next.
    â€œI still think you’re a little too young to start breaking horses,” her father continued.
    â€œBut Duncan was younger than I am right now when he started.” She crossed her arms over her chest and