Blue eyes dancing with excitement, Tony reached for the handle of the branding iron, which glowed a dull red in the campfire. “No!” Rafe reacted instinctively, grabbing the boy’s wrist and yanking his hand back from the hot rod. Jeannie, her heart galloping like a wild horse in her chest at the thought of how close he’d come to burning himself, said gently, “You forgot to put your gloves on, honey.” Twin flags of embarrassment stained Tony’s cheeks as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans for the work gloves he’d taken off at lunchtime. Orchestrated chaos prevailed in the camp. Dust clogged the nostrils of humans and horses alike. Calves lowed plaintively for their mothers, cows for their offspring. The afternoon sun burned a brand of its own into the backs of unprotected necks and hands. “Now you’re ready,” Rafe said, motioning a regloved Tony over to the campfire so that he could teach him the trick of making a clean brand on the calf being wrestled to the ground.
