For three weeks Liam had chased the silver stallion, and for three weeks he had eaten its dust. The wild horse ran wherever it pleased across the Guanajuato hills, and no rider had ever roped it. Liam meant to be the first. This morning he saddled his palomino mare before sunrise, checked her cinch twice, and rode out to the ridge where the stallion grazed. He spotted the silver at the tree line, head down, tail flicking. Liam eased the mare forward. He kept low. He held his breath. Then a branch snapped under a hoof, and the stallion's head came up. It bolted. Liam kicked the mare hard. She lunged after it, golden mane whipping, hooves pounding the dry ground. For ten strides they were close. He could see the sweat on the silver's flank. He swung his rope up and waited for the throw. The throw never came. The stallion simply pulled away. It stretched into a gallop the mare could not answer. She was strong and well kept, but she was built for steady work, not this. Within seconds the silver was a shrinking shape, then dust, then nothing. Liam reined in. The mare heaved beneath him, spent and blowing. He sat there a long moment. Then he understood the plain truth. He would never catch that stallion on this horse. No amount of skill fixed a gap in speed. If he wanted the silver, he needed a mount that could run it down. Liam turned the mare toward home. He passed his weathered timber house without stopping and rode straight to the big brown stable at the edge of his land. Inside, the air smelled of hay and leather. Stalls ran down both walls beneath the broad roof. He walked past his own empty stall to the one at the far end. Behind the gate stood a black horse. It was a Friesian, tall and heavy-muscled, its coat dark as a moonless night. A trader had left it with Liam months ago as payment for a debt, and Liam had never ridden it. It was too big, too strong, too much horse for daily ranch work. It pinned its ears when he approached and stamped once against the boards. Liam studied it. A Friesian had power. It had long legs and deep lungs. It might match the silver stride for stride, if a man could stay on its back. "Guess it's you and me," he said. He opened the gate. The black horse swung its head toward him and snorted, and its whole weight shifted, testing him before he even touched the reins. Liam's mouth went dry. He had solved one problem and bought a harder one. The mare could never catch the stallion. This horse might. But first he had to break it, and it did not look like it wanted breaking.