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decided to hole up in the canyon’s bottom until morning. Shortly after sunrise, they discovered the Apaches had disappeared. In the dead of night, the fierce, small band had fled by foot over the mountains, running for miles without leaving a trace. I hoped the toughness, grit, and patience of those natives would transfer to me.
    “Here’s to figuring out if we can make this sanctuary work,” I said. Our glasses pinged. The red liquid held the rays of sun. Its sliding warmth matched that of the stones. “Tell me what you’re thinking, sweetheart.”
    Sue savored a sip before answering. “I’m thinking this proposition has hit some chord in you. I can hear it resonating. And if I know you like I do, you’re not going to turn your back. You’re going to throw your saddle right over this baby and run with it as far as you can. So someway, somehow, we are going to make this wild horse thing work. In fact, we’re not leaving this mountain until we figure it out. Otherwise we could be headed for a case of regrets, and who needs that?” She took my hand in hers.
    Through the rest of the wine and into dinner, we carefully laid a foundation under Dayton’s grandiose plan. I racked my brain to identify all the parts we had to play to make the sanctuary a success. First, I would have to spend extended periods of time in South Dakota learning the ranch inside and out. This would leave Sue with a larger role in Lazy B’s day-to-day operations. She would need to work closely with our foreman, Greg Webb, and relay details to me every day by phone. She already was an angel caregiver to my aging mother and even more of that responsibility would fall on her shoulders. For my part, I needed to discuss this venture with my partner in the Rex Ranch, Alan Stratman. My guess was that he would want to focus his efforts entirely in Nebraska. I would continue to be involved in decisions there as we moved forward to meet our business goals, but I felt comfortable turning the reins over to him. I also needed to give John Pitkin the heads-up that the plan was to fill the old Arnold Ranch pastures with horses, not cattle. I didn’t foresee an issue there. Dayton and I would lobby the BLM , and somewhere along the way, I would get educated about wild horses. How exactly did one go about handling a couple thousand renegade mustangs?
    As the campfire reflected off the dark walls of the canyon, Sue and I hashed out detail after detail, stacking them like the rocks in the battlement above us. Only a few embers glowed when we settled onto the lumpy mattress, a light blanket covering us. The choir of a million stars serenaded us with their sparkles. I pulled my wife close, felt her curves form into mine.
    “We’re partners in this one, baby. If something’s not going right, you have to let me know,” I whispered in her ear.
    “I will. I promise,” she said, wrapping her legs around me. It was our turn to serenade the stars.
    I drifted into the depth of night feeling like I was on the brink of a long journey. The road stretched ahead of me like an Arizona highway, untouched by snow and ice and salt spreaders. Smooth blacktop. Bright yellow stripes. Even on freshly paved roads, blowouts occur. Here and there you see scraps of shredded tires on the shoulder of the road, sometimes in the middle, too. Hurdles that you don’t discern until the last minute. One way or another, you get around them. Sometimes you swerve, sometimes you drive over them. I would need to keep a careful eye on this road and a steady hand on the wheel.
    The minute Sue and I returned to ranch headquarters the next morning, I made a beeline to my office. If there was one person in the Bureau of Land Management who would be open to an innovative idea and who had climbed the bureaucratic ladder high enough to help, it was Les Rosencranz. Les and I had developed a friendly relationship during the years Lazy B had been under his jurisdiction. He was a good listener, a straight