Free Nightway by Janet Dailey

home. You’ll have the best education. There will come a time when you can get involved in my business.”
    Hawk looked at him with impassive blue eyes. He saw the weak side of his father’s character. He was disillusioned but not bitter. Slowly he turned and walked away—alone. There were so many considerations to be weighed.
    To celebrate the Fourth of July, the Flying F Ranch held its own rodeo and barbeque. There was a lot of good-natured rivalry and competition among the cowboys as they pitted their skills against each other in calf-roping, bull-dogging, steer-roping, and saddle-bronc riding. Even the children of the cowboys had an event of their own—a goat-milking contest. The last event was a horse race.
    When Hawk rode his chestnut horse to the starting line and crowded in with the other riders, there was a slight lull in the talking. Most of the cowboys at one time or another had seen the desert-bred pony stretch into a flat-out run and knew about its speed. Yet they glanced from one to the other, their eyes inevitably straying to a second boy entered in the competition on a sleek, long-legged bay. Chad Faulkner always won. The contest was who would take the second and third places.
    At the starting line, Katheryn Faulkner held the pistol, every inch the owner’s wife in her split riding skirt of leather and a matching leather vest over a white cotton blouse. Luther Wilcox was the cowboy closest to Hawk. He inched his horse nearer.
    “Your horse is good, but you can’t beat that bay of Chad’s,” he said.
    “His horse is faster,” Hawk agreed. “But I ride better.”
    The pistol was fired and the horses leaped forward. The race course was a mile-long run, its circuit extending across the grass pasture to a lone cotton-wood, then circling back to finish where they started.
    Hawk took the lead on his chestnut, then let the bay catch him and pass. Choosing his route with care, he avoided the rough ground that slowed the other horse. Instead of crossing the dry wash where it sloped, he guided his horse to the point where the gully was narrow and the banks were steep, and jumped his horse across it, taking the lead easily.
    The bay had nearly caught up with him when they reached the cottonwood, but its circle was wide. Hawk’s chestnut curved around it so close that the bark of the trunk scraped his knee. He was bent low over the horse’s neck, the wind-whipped mane stinging his face. The fleet-footed bay again made up the lost ground, only to lose it again at the gully.
    When they crossed the finish line, the chestnut was ahead by a neck. The pounding of racing hooves and the grunting of straining, equine breathing deafened Hawk to the hesitant and scattered cheers from the crowd.
    Flushed and exhilarated by his victory, he reined his horse into a canter and made a sweeping turn back to the finish line for his prize. The resentful look thatclouded his half-brother’s expression when he rode by didn’t bother Hawk. His father was standing in the front of the crowd, wearing a faint smile of pride.
    It wasn’t his father’s approval and recognition of the victory that Hawk wanted as much as it was that of the slim, graceful woman who bestowed the ribbon and prize money to the winner. His blue eyes were shining with excitement as he rode toward her. He wanted her praise more than the prize.
    Little Carol was standing beside Katheryn when Hawk stopped his scrawny-looking mount. Long seconds passed before Katheryn Faulkner lifted her head to look at him. Something died inside of him when he saw the icy anger and hatred in her eyes. The smile of victory faded from his face as the chestnut danced and shifted beneath him. Hawk held her gaze with stubborn pride, refusing to be denied the recognition that was rightfully his.
    “You cheated,” she accused in a low, husky voice that trembled with barely controlled anger. The insulting words stung Hawk. A blinding feeling of hurt briefly darkened his eyes. “You