Free Finding Home by Lois Greiman

probably never called anyone a moron in her entire life. Even the morons. But hell, she’d just ridden a damned bucking horse. A girl that rides a damned bucking horse should be able to call someone a moron now and again. “Who do you suppose gave him the shiner?” she asked and focused on her destination.
    â€œAll right. Gil’s a moron. But he’s a big moron who’s not shy about throwing his weight around, and it looks like his boy may have inherited his short fuse.”
    â€œWhat do you expect when his dad’s . . .” She jolted to a halt, finally noticing the tractor that stood in her driveway. A half-ton round bale was suspended in its tines.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she asked.
    She could feel Dickenson’s scowl without looking at him. “You so messed up you can’t recognize hay?”
    â€œI’m not messed up.” Maybe. “You brought me a bale?”
    â€œIt wasn’t my idea; Toby thought maybe the horses should eat even if you did steal them from him.”
    She snorted, winced at the pain, and set her jaw. “Well . . . thanks.”
    â€œIt wasn’t me .”
    â€œThen thank him, ” she said and marched resolutely onward.
    He swore again and followed her to the house. She turned the doorknob, then shifted to glance behind. Three people were crowding in after her, their faces registering varying degrees of fear and aggravation.
    â€œHey,” Dickenson said, turning to the kids. “You. What’s your name?”
    â€œEmily.” The girl raised wide mocha eyes to his.
    â€œYeah. Emily, run upstairs and get a hot bath ready for Head Case here, will you?”
    â€œOkay,” she agreed, and squeezing through the doorway, rushed into the house.
    Casie scowled at her rapidly retreating feet. “I don’t need a bath.”
    â€œAre you kidding?” Dickenson asked. “Your ass is caked in—”
    â€œWatch your language.”
    He snorted, almost objected, then shook his head and moved on. “Believe me, woman, you need a bath.”
    â€œTyler,” she said. “I’ve got a shirt and a clean pair of jeans in a laundry basket in the basement. Can you grab them for me?”
    He shuffled his feet, looking guilty, as if he had been the one to toss her on her can, but despite everything she felt strangely exhilarated. “I think maybe the bronc buster’s right this one—” he began, but she lowered her brows and gave him a look. He nodded solemnly.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said, and turning away, hurried inside.
    â€œWhat the hell’s wrong with you?” Dickenson asked when the boy was out of sight.
    Casie breathed a laugh. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. I’ve got a hundred head of cattle left to calf out, twice that many ewes shooting out lambs like poison darts, and a half dozen rank horses that miraculously showed up in my cattle pen. What do you expect me to do?”
    â€œI expect you to be smart. I expect you to—”
    â€œWell, I can’t be smart if I can’t get back to school and I can’t get back to school if I can’t pay tuition and I can’t pay tuition if I can’t—”
    â€œHoly hell, Case, you think listening to some dirt-dull speaker is going to give you smarts? You’ve been in school half a lifetime and you’re still not bright enough to know you don’t just jump at a horse like that. You gotta ease into it a little. You could have been really hurt. You could have been—”
    â€œHah!” It wasn’t so much a laugh as a grunt. “And this from a man who makes his living . . . his living . . .” She leaned in to tap him on the chest with a muddy forefinger. “. . . riding bucking horses. What? You think you’re the only one who can take a chance? You think you’re the only one who can do something crazy now and then?”
    He opened his