Free A Lady Bought with Rifles by Jeanne Williams

He must have called me that last night to give me courage.
    I almost choked on a swallow of coffee. “I—I was thinking stupid goats enjoy life, too.”
    Trace’s blue-green eyes widened. His long mouth twisted in a way that held back laughter. “I’m sure you’re right,” he granted. “But it’s sadly true that any stupid creature is more likely to fall in traps and be less able to defend itself than brighter individuals.”
    â€œBut mightn’t there be some valuable traits that don’t necessarily go along with ability to survive? Would you call Socrates less valuable to mankind than Attila?”
    Trace gave me a long, considering look. “I never heard of either man—if they were men,” he said. “But of course there’s more to life than being strongest or richest or smartest—or even most beautiful. There are things we all can do. Breathe good air, enjoy the food we get, look at what’s happening in the world and how lovely and cruel and great it is.”
    â€œAs if he read my thoughts, Cruz added, “Sewa can do these things and many more. If being lame makes her slower, she may see and savor what many run past.”
    â€œI must look over the horses and pick a few for Court Sanders, who runs Mina Rara,” Trace said. “The ride might interest Miss Greenleaf if you can look after the child till evening.”
    â€œI must watch her closely today in any case,” Cruz said. “Perhaps you could count my goats on your way. There should be six kids.” His ash-colored eyes scanned me. “Señorita, the sun has burned you. Before you ride today, let me give you an ointment.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Trace. “And wear my hat. I’ve got another I can pick up.”
    My face did feel well-boiled and I hadn’t done my hair that morning. Just as well there was no mirror, especially after Cruz carefully smeared a greenish stuff on my face and neck, explaining that it was aloes. I sighed ruefully at my stained riding habit, which was by now snagged in numerous places. It was past repair, though my skin should right itself in time. Again I told myself it was lucky I needn’t be at pains to spare my clothes: I could follow Trace through any brush without worrying.
    â€œYou’re sure Sewa won’t need me?” I asked.
    â€œYou would only tire yourself watching by her today,” said Cruz. “Tomorrow it will be important that you are close, and that will not be easy. Any good hours you can have today will help you and Sewa, so enjoy them with a free heart.”
    I went in to see her while Trace was getting the horses. She slept, face tucked against her arm, the flute under her hand. Merciful that Cruz could give her sleep, but soon she would have to face the loss of her foot. I’d do whatever I could. Perhaps an artificial foot could be made. But nothing could restore the bend of her ankle, the use of a living part of her body. Nothing could bring back her family.
    Brushing hair from her face, I bent suddenly to kiss her, a deep fierce tenderness rooting itself in me. She would be my sister and my child. I would take care of her. For the first time since my mother died, I felt less alone.
    The horses of Las Coronas were loosely separated according to color. There was a predominance of blacks because the primal stallion of these horses, brought over by the Spaniards, had been a magnificent black. But now there were duns, bays, roans, and grays. Each band of thirty to eighty had its own range and was kept in line by a lead mare and the stallion who protected and utterly dominated his harem.
    â€œCourt wants a gray gelding about sixteen hands high,” mused Trace as we turned up a box canyon where a gray herd found such graze as it could. “I think Roque has a good three-year-old that’ll do, providing it’s free of blemishes.”
    â€œMr. Sanders dislikes