She wasn’t sure which was worse. That he’d been dead weight all along, that he’d thrown a childish hissy fit upon his dismissal, or that he only had the training job in the first place because he had been screwing her mother.
Ah, Sylvia. Her mother dearest could always be counted on for total drama and zero common sense.
Peyton made a mental checklist as she drove. First things first: make sure the ranch hands had set the mess Nylen had made to rights again. Then she had to figure out exactly how to contact her brother and sister. Bea would probably be easy to find. But Trace . . . who knew. If the last cell phone number she had was still active, she’d be shocked. Living the life of a rodeo nomad left much to be desired by way of stability. So she’d have to start making contact with guys she knew from high school. See if they’d seen Trace around.
And then, it was on to finding a new trainer. The trainer could make or break an operation. Word of mouth was the biggest draw for any ranch, and if you had a good one, your ranch reputation would rise by association. Picking an unknown wasn’t a death sentence, it was just a slower build. Cheaper, though.
The wrong trainer could kill any hopes of rebuilding M-Star. They were already in a hole, both with reputation and cash, thanks to the horrible business decisions her mother had made over the years. The wrong move here could take years to fix. Years they didn’t have.
But there were more immediate issues at hand. Like making sure her brother and sister weren’t going to stand in the way of her running the ranch.
And the way this day was going, the odds of that happening were slim to none.
Peyton pulled up to the main stable and parked her Jeep. Hopping out, she stared for just a moment over the ranch. Her breeding and training operation—focusing on rodeo horses—was her life. From the time she’d first known what the land was used for as a toddler, she knew this was where she’d stay, to work and live. Some might have thought it was crazy that a three-year-old had known what she wanted in life. But Peyton had always known.
She walked around until she found her head hand, Arby, rubbing down a colt. She leaned a shoulder against the wall and watched him work.
Though he was fast approaching seventy, Arby knew almost everything there was to know about horses. Inside, outside, and everything in between, it was like he could read a horse’s mind and anticipate its moves before even the horse knew it. But never did he step into the role of trainer, though he likely would have made a first-class one. A simple hand, he always said, was what he was meant to be. All he wanted to be.
She watched his hands, stiff with age, as they smoothed over the restless colt’s back, soothing and relaxing the animal.
“How’d he do?”
“Well enough.” He continued his work without facing her. “He’s got spirit, got a real fire in him. But he needs a firm hand, a good rider, and a great trainer, or he’ll run roughshod over anyone we hand him over to.”
“Yeah, well, that’s something I need to address.” Right after the small problem of her siblings and their third interest apiece.
With a final pat, Arby moved out of the stall and closed the door behind him. “Any ideas on where to turn?”
Peyton shook her head and followed him back to the tack room. “No clue. I’ll have to start making some calls, I guess.” Calls that likely wouldn’t be returned. Because people either thought that she didn’t have what it took, because she lacked a dangling sex organ, or because they didn’t want to associate with a struggling operation.
None of those facts was in her favor. But she could change one, if only she had the chance.
Without looking up from the bridle he polished, Arby said, “Red Callahan’s free. Just left Three Trees the other day, according to word.”
Gossip, despite the distance between ranches and town, moved faster than a wildfire with a good wind.
Peyton glared at the brim of his hat. “You’re trying to kill me, right? You know what that bastard’s been doing to us.”
Arby hung the bridle up with meticulous care and grabbed another. “I know you overheard a single conversation that was private, and you have no context for it. And you’re more than a little emotional about the whole thing.”
“I’m not emotional!” she yelled, then took in a shuddering breath. Okay, so maybe a little emotional. Calmer, she went on. “He was telling Pete Daugherty to avoid our ranch. He all but said we were failing, didn’t know what we were doing. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of him discouraging people from using our operation.”
“Might have a reason for it,” was Arby’s calm response.