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“Jackson, I’m going to do my very best to save your horses.”
He met her straight look with one of his own.
“Thank you, Darcy.”
“We’ll have to pray as hard as we work,” she said, “but, God willing, we’ll have them on their feet and on the mend in a week or so.”
Jackson shook his head. He looked down at the soda can in his hands.
“I’ll do the work. You’ll have to say the prayers.”
Then suddenly, almost as if against his will, he blurted, “Mine wouldn’t rise above the treetops.”
“Why do you think that?” she said.
“I know it,” he said, in a tone of complete finality. “I lost my faith a long time ago.”
GENA DALTON
has wanted to be a professional writer ever since she learned to read at the age of four. However, she became a secondary teacher and then a college professor/dean of women instead, and only began to write after she was married and a stay-at-home mother. She entered an essay contest, which resulted in a newspaper publication that gave her confidence she could achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a “real writer.”
Gena lives in Oklahoma with her husband of twenty-four years. Now that their son is grown, their only companions are two dogs, two house cats, one barn cat and one cat who belongs to the neighbors but won’t go home.
She loves to hear from readers. She can be reached c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th floor, New York, NY 10017.
Stranger at the Crossroads
Gena Dalton
MILLS & BOON
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But a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion when he saw him. He went up and bandaged his wounds, pouring oil and wine on them. He then lifted him on to his own mount, carried him to the inn and looked after him.
—Luke 10:33-34
This story is dedicated to God, Who, as always,
gave me the book, and to my friends Karen and
Paula, who helped me listen for the words.
I would also like to thank my friend Jill Peale,
DVM, who advised me on all matters veterinary.
Any mistakes are mine alone.
Dear Reader,
This story of veterinarian Darcy Hart and reclusive rancher Jackson McMahan may be my very favorite of all my books. Any of us can find ourselves called by God to help a stranger who is more wounded by life than we are, and in giving that help receive love in return.
That kind of giving and receiving began on the side of a narrow Texas road the day Darcy ran away from Oklahoma, fleeing from her grief. That same early morning Jackson was compelled to rescue a neglected, pregnant mare he used to own. Once Darcy stopped to help him, their journeys would never be separate again.
While you hold Stranger at the Crossroads in your hands, I’m back in the Texas Hill country on the McMahan Ranch, the Rocking M, following the love stories of Jackson’s brothers, Clint and Monte, to their own happy endings. I hope you will look for them, too.
Please let me know how you like this book. I would love to hear from you. You can reach me c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd St., New York, NY 10017.
Warm wishes,
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
Stealing a horse wasn’t easy. At least not this one.
Jackson McMahan put the halter and lead rope behind his back and tried to soothe the mare with his voice while he slowly moved closer to her.
“Settle down, now, girl,” he crooned, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Finally, ten or fifteen minutes after he’d driven onto Blake Collier’s ranch by the back road so he wouldn’t have to pass the house, he maneuvered the nervous animal into a corner. He shifted off his good leg onto his lame one and, ignoring the sudden pain in his knee that made his gait even more awkward, stepped up to her head without spooking her.
Her big belly slowed her down, and too little food had made her weak, so he managed to get his arm around her neck, and then the rope, just before she tried to break away again. He let out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t known he was holding.
“Come on home with me, Mama, and get a square meal,” he said, while he slipped the halter onto her head and buckled it with his clumsy gloved hands. “You want your baby to have all its parts, don’t you?”
It was way too late to affect that, though, he decided, glancing over his shoulder as he led her out of the pen and toward the trailer’s open door. From the looks of her distended sides with the ribs standing out under her skin, this foal would be on the ground, alive or dead, before it had a chance to absorb very many days’ worth of nutrients.
He had brought the three-horse trailer with the ramp so she wouldn’t have to make the short leap up into it, but that didn’t help much. She refused to have anything to do with the trailer. She balked and pawed the ground and swung side to side every time he tried to lead her forward.
Jackson glanced over his shoulder toward the house. No sign of life.
That was good, because Blake Collier would be much more likely to shoot a horse thief than to call the sheriff.
He smooched to the mare again, waited, and smooched again. When she took a tiny step forward, he started up the ramp as if he thought that was what she’d intended to do. Suddenly docile, she walked beside him. He led her into a slot, ran the rope through the ring and, willing his fingers not to fumble too much, tied her off. His heart lifted as he fastened the divider and hurried to close the door and raise the ramp.
Shooting danger aside, any fight with Blake would be a toss-up now that Jackson’s body was so unreliable—and an unnecessary delay, to boot. It