Chapter 2
Despite their evil reputation, he found most of them smart and teachable. And most, after a period of training and gaining their confidence, could safely go to good caring homes where they gave their new owners hours of pleasure and riding fun. Mules were getting very popular among trail riders and other equestrians across the country. Orr thought that was pretty cool.
As he drove back to New Mexico to his Muleshoe OL Ranch, Orr decided he’d name the sorrel mollie Penny. She was the right color, and he hoped she’d be lucky as well. A glance in his rear view mirror showed her pert face looking through a window at the front of the trailer. When he’d gone into the barn, he’d caught her with both ears pinned flat to her neck, her eyes rolling to show half white and sheer desperation in her expression.
Had he not arrived when he did, somebody would have been hurt badly. Even if it might and should have been that sorry bastard of a livestock dealer, had the whip caught the mule across the face, she could be blind or scarred now. The idea curdled in his gut. He’d like to meet that piece of shit out somewhere with no one around…Frontier justice had a lot of merit in some cases.
* * * *
Two hours later, he pulled off on the winding dirt road that led to his little ranch alongside the Gila River in southwestern New Mexico, about a hundred miles from the livestock market in Arizona where he’d picked up Penny. She’d never have to put up with that whip-wielding fool again or anyone like him if Orr had any say in the matter.
He stopped beside his hay barn, parked, and opened the tailgate to get Penny out. She gave a soft, nervous snort as he untied the lead, but made no move to resist or do anything like biting or kicking. He led her around a bit and then tied her to a sturdy hitching post in the middle of his round training corral. Taking plenty of time, he worked his way from her muzzle to her tail, lifted all four feet and concluded she’d soon be totally reliable and probably a damn fine mount.
After that he put her into one of the smaller pens with a sun shade over the manger and a big basin of cool, fresh water in another corner. “Bet you think you died and went to heaven, don’t ya, girl?”
She made a whuffling sound as he threw a flake of hay and a scoop of grain into the manger. In a nearby pen, his favorite big black john mule, Horatio, stuck his head over the rails and brayed a greeting.
Orr turned Horatio’s way. “Yep, brought you a new lady friend, old boy. You be sure to treat her nice. I’ll put you two out in the pasture in the morning to get acquainted.” Since mules were sterile and Horatio was also gelded, there would be no romance or mating. Still, he hoped the two would become friends and good working partners. The word partners lingered in his mind as he turned to the restored traditional adobe house he called home.
It would sure be nice to have a partner himself. Unfortunately, his lifestyle wasn’t one many found attractive. He worked long, hard hours, spent a lot of time alone in the wild country, and although he got by, he’d never be rich. Hell, he’d never be more than a thin notch above poverty, if the truth were told. Although he loved what he did, it sure wasn’t sexy, glamorous or any road to luxury. Mules had gained a lot of status since he’d started out in the business of training and selling them when he was just a kid, but he still ran into lots of prejudice and scorn for his loyalty to the long-eared critters.
* * * *
Jase Keller drove slowly down the winding two-lane road, pausing often to peer at signs. The one he sought would say something about mules. The very idea seemed more ludicrous by the minute. He pressed down on the accelerator of his rental crossover in a flare of defiance. He had to be out of his mind. He knew sidewalks and crowds, the hectic pace of the modern financial world. He did not know country roads, barbwire fences, or small streams edged by big gray barked trees. And most certainly not mules.
He’d always heard they were stubborn, ill-tempered, prone to kicking, and very antisocial. If Jase was anything, it was not antisocial. He was one of the most social people he knew. So what in fucking bloody hell was he doing in a remote corner of New Mexico looking for a place that had mules in the name and took people on pack trips? The relentless stress of his job these last few years must have blown what was left of his mind.