Free Leftover Love by Janet Dailey Page A

crested a hill and headed down its slope. At the bottom one of the many lake ponds that dotted this region was sprawled in their path. It was ringed with trees, dark skeletons around the ice-packed surface that still held patches of snow. Instead of riding around its long, curving shoreline, Hoyt aimed his horse at a narrow finger. Layne started to pull up, checking her horse’s pace. Hoyt glanced back when she started to fall behind.
    “It’s okay. The lake’s still frozen solid. No sense riding around it when we can go across,” he called to her above the groan of saddle leather and drumming hoofs.
    Still a little uncertain, she followed him. When they entered the trees, Hoyt slowed his horse to a walk and approached the snow-crusted ice covering the lake. Layne waited until he had started across before urging her own mount onto the rough ice. The shaggy-coated sorrel blew out a nervous snort at the slick footing as it moved gingerly across the frozen lake, its pricked ears in a constant flux ofdirection at the ominous cracking sounds beneath its hooves. On the opposite shore it made a slipping lunge onto solid ground.
    “See? That wasn’t so bad.” Hoyt grinned at her.
    “Lead on,” she laughed in return.
    He kicked his horse into a canter to climb the slope of the next mounded ridge. At the top of the hill Layne caught a glimpse of the cartwheeled spokes of a windmill. It had to be the one located by the gate. It was a relief to finally get her bearings and know for herself which way to ride.
    The windmill grew steadily bigger as they approached, looming on the horizon. When they topped the last rise, Layne noticed the mud-spattered pickup parked beside the stock tank at the base of the windmill. Her curious glance made another sweep of the wide pocket of range. That pickup was the one Creed usually drove, but she saw no sign of him in the immediate vicinity. The tailgate of the truck was lowered, and an opened toolbox was sitting on the ledge it made.
    “It looks like Creed is finally getting that broken shaft fixed,” Hoyt observed.
    The comment pulled her gaze back to the windmill. On the platform atop the tall wooden structure, a dark shape was crouched next to the convex blades. Its bulk couldn’t belong to anyone else but Creed.
    “Hello!” Hoyt shouted the greeting and Creed’s head came up, and a hand was briefly raised to acknowledge their approach. Hoyt reined in his horse while they were still several yards short of the windmill’s base where he still had an angle of view at the man on the platform. Layne stopped beside him. “We got that cow treated, so we’ll be heading back to the house.”
    “Before you go”—Creed moved to the edge of the platformand looked down—“one of you bring me up a crescent wrench.”
    Hoyt hesitated and glanced at Layne. “You do it,” he urged. “I get nosebleeds every time I climb on anything taller than a horse.”
    The look in his eye advised Layne that he wasn’t joking. His phobia about heights was very real. High places had never bothered her, so she didn’t offer any objection to his request.
    “Sure, I’ll do it,” she agreed and swung out of the saddle.
    Bending, Hoyt reached for the reins of her horse. “While you do that, I’ll get the horses loaded in the trailer.”
    “Okay.” She passed him the reins.
    The pickup and horse trailer were another hundred yards distant, beyond the fence gate. Layne didn’t object to walking that far. After so much riding, she needed to exercise her legs a little. As Hoyt led her horse away, she walked to the toolbox on the tailgate of Creed’s truck.
    “The crescent wrench should be lying right on top,” Creed called down to her. It wasn’t but she quickly found it among the other tools.
    “Got it.” She started for the base of the windmill.
    “Are you sure it’s a crescent wrench?” he questioned with a hint of skepticism.
    She didn’t bother to look up as she continued confidently to the