The horrible cost of flying from revenge

"The Work of Wolves" sometimes reads like the work of golden retrievers. It's a little too big, a little too beautiful, and it jumps all over the place, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Kent Meyers's new novel is the kind of book that demands and rewards fierce loyalty.

Meyers lives in South Dakota, which serves as the setting and thematic reservoir for this philosophical western that manages to corral native American spirituality, Nazi Germany, Old Testament myths, and unbridled capitalism.

If Paula Cole is still wondering where all the cowboys have gone, she should meet Carson Fielding, the sensitive, steady-eyed hero of "The Work of Wolves."

The story opens with an epilogue when Carson is 14. It's a kind of early Gospel scene that lets us see the horse whisperer in the making. With natural wisdom that's entirely guileless, he confounds the crafty and comforts the innocent. His father feels as if this young rancher isn't even his own son, and his mother stands in worried awe of the boy's calm determination.

Of course, skittish cynics will bolt at the earnest quality of Meyers's story, but I instantly fell under its spell and have been eager to find other people who will love it ever since.

We meet Carson again when he's a respected horse trainer, a cool young man with infinite confidence in his methods and no interest in anything besides his work. Only the horses matter; they set the pace.

"I don't break horses," he tells a client. "I train horses. Long as I'm workin with 'em, these horses are mine. I ain't a hired hand, an I don't follow orders. I do things my own way, an at my own speed. You don't like what I do, it ain't like we compromise. You either like it or you pay me what we agreed on to quit."

It's a stance bound to offend the county's richest man, Magnus Yarborough, a businessman used to getting his way through a combination of money and intimidation. But his new young wife has convinced him to give her riding lessons, and Carson is the best teacher around.

You know where this is going. But not really. As he teaches Rebecca to ride and trains her three horses, Carson gradually falls in love with her. Who wouldn't? She's gorgeous with "her hair aslant in the wind." What man can resist aslant hair?

But if Meyers gets a little carried away, his characters don't. Rebecca is afraid of her brutal husband, and Carson respects the boundaries of marriage, even if this particular marriage deserves no respect.

It's just one of Meyers's many surprising moves that he's written such a passionate love story with no love scenes. (Put your yellow highlighter away.) The only time that Rebecca and Carson find the opportunity and determination to consummate their affection, they're interrupted in one of the novel's most haunting scenes.

The facts of their relationship, though, don't matter when Magnus gets infected by suspicion. "In the face of the false story that had been built," Carson realizes, "the truth itself could never be conveyed. The god of jealousy imposed a tongue not spoken by other men."

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