“Saddle,” Boyd repeated, the word clicking into place. “Her saddle.”
He turned to Clint, his eyes wide with a new kind of energy. “The old tack room. In the back of the main barn. There’s a whole section of gear from past employees we never cleared out.”
Clint just nodded, still looking stunned, and took off at a run.
Paulette clutched Boyd’s arm. “Sarah’s saddle? I thought she sold everything before…” Her voice trailed off.
“She didn’t sell it,” Boyd said, more to himself than to anyone else. “She left it here. I remember now. Said she’d be back for it. She never came.”
The weight of eleven years of neglect pressed down on him. Eleven years he’d held onto a horse he considered a dangerous liability. Eleven years he’d ignored the last words of a young woman who had trusted him.
He looked at Terrence. The boy hadn’t taken his eyes off the horse. There was no fear on his face, only a profound, quiet joy. It was the look of someone who had found a missing piece of himself.
A few minutes later, Clint came jogging back, carrying a dusty, worn leather saddle. It was smaller than the ones they used now, clearly custom-made. The leather was cracked in places, but you could see it had been cared for meticulously.
Tucked into a side flap, almost completely hidden, was a leather-bound journal.
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