My Magic Cowboy

Chapter 1

I slid out of the passenger’s side of my dad’s Range Rover, landing quietly in the central New Mexico caliche of my uncle’s ranch. Dust puffed up around my boots in small, dry clouds. I’d been working toward that day for more than a year. I pulled the speakers of my iPod out of my ears and repositioned my sunglasses to cover my too-blue-for-their-own-good eyes. Immediately, I felt relief from the early October sunlight.

My dad was just finishing up a conversation with my mom on his cell phone. The love in my father’s voice echoed in my head as he told her ’bye. Their bond had grown tighter and tougher over the previous two years. Many marriages would have crumbled under the circumstances they’d faced together.

Your mother sends her congratulations, my father said as he stepped into the glare of the relentless sun. Though Dad was fast approaching fifty, he looked just past thirty. The deep laugh lines that punctuated his wit were beginning to dominate the landscape of his face once again. It was nice. I smiled, took his hand, and tugged him gently toward the familiar rattle of an approaching vehicle.

An unhealthy, stubborn-sounding jeep rolled into view around the corner of the barn. My uncle Matt jerked the decrepit vehicle to a halt with the handbrake and in the same motion leaped over its side.

Carly! he bellowed.

Unable to bottle up my excitement any longer, I jerked my sunglasses off and sprinted headlong into his bear hug. Even though we talked twice a week or more on the phone and e-mailed each other daily, I hadn’t seen him since spring. How I missed him!

Matt’s signature scent of Ivory soap and English Leather was thick as his denim shirt. Matt picked me up and spun me around, his huge grin reminding me that things with him never deviated. I might change, the world might change, but I could always count on Matt to be the same. And, as was always the case, he was about to come through for me. In a big way.

Uncle Matt pushed me back gently to inspect. Damn, you’re skinny, he told me with concern in his voice. I thought you promised to eat… a lot.

I- I am. I have been, I stuttered through tears. I’m just getting taller.

Since my little brother Cord’s death, Matt had taken me on as a personal project. It had been two years – just as I’d begun my freshman year in high school - when Cord died of an E. coli infection contracted at a fast food stop. By the time we really knew he was seriously sick, it was too late. Our entire family reeled at the loss.

I’d taken it differently than my big sister, Cameron, or my parents. Cord and I had been closer than he and Cameron. I was his after school tutor, had seen to his music and art endeavors, and coached his horse show career aboard my half Arabian mare. Moreover, Cord looked to me for a much deeper kind of support. With our dad gone a lot and my mother buried in research, Cord depended on me to be his sounding board. I was more than willing to serve in that role. He was unique, quirky, and adorable. All the things a little brother should be. Somehow Cord’s E. coli infection had morphed into appetite evils for me. From that day forward I’d been unable to eat properly and the just barely manageable problem hadn’t lessened much over time.

Matt knew what an enormous emptiness Cord’s death left me with and took over the ‘Carly recovery’ job. I loved him even more for it.

He hugged me close again as my dad reached us. I’ve got your cure. Sending your medicine home with you today, Matt said into the top of my head.

I took the momentary escape from Matt’s grip to wipe my face on my sleeve. He reached for my father’s hand.

Matthew, my father said, It’s good to see you. He gripped the calloused hand belonging to his brother-in-law.

Yes it is, Brandon. Very good to see you, too. Uncle Matt told my dad as he pulled him from the handshake into a quick but heartfelt hug.

Thank you, Dad said, meeting Matt’s gaze meaningfully.

I was quivering. My sunglasses shook in my hand and it felt like my Wranglers were going to shimmy right off of my hips. I crammed my knees together to hold the stiffly pressed denim in place. Pathetic! The only thing that seemed to fit properly was a flaky, ever-present parasite. A dry ache that hugged me like a cardboard cardigan. I needed to eat more or buy new jeans. I needed to quit quaking and hold myself together for Uncle Matt and Dad.

Well, Carly, Uncle Matt announced, Frank’s been working all summer to see if you’ll like him. Let’s not keep him waitin’. You’n your dad go to the trap and I’ll turn him out.

’K, I squeaked. I hated that. The second I got the least bit emotional, my body, my voice, and my cool malfunctioned simultaneously. I dragged my dad toward the only tilled dirt in over five sections of the western Rafter C Ranch.

About thirty fat heifers lowed and paced down from the edge of the mesa top pasture. The activity at the barn triggered their Pavlovian march. Hands full of amazing, rugged, bright-eyed mares peered at us while their this-year’s-babies sucked. Soon it would be baled grass and a communal grain trough for them. They were getting big.

I stepped up on the bottom rail of the trap fence. Four runs stretched between the four east stalls of the eight-stall barn and the trap. Four runs extended from the opposite side of the barn but did not empty into anything except forever. I felt the familiar give of the hand-hewn rail under my Dan Post boots. I’d bounced on that rail my whole life. I’d watched through the two lower rails, then the two upper rails, and finally over the top rail when I was twelve. I’d watched my Uncle Matt work his certain magic with horses.

Matt unlatched the third stall on this side of the barn. I knew because the hinges always stuck and screeched. It had been Punk’s stall when she was here and Chaco’s stall when I was using him last year. Stick, screech. Third stall on the left.

Suddenly, it was like Zeus himself had unleashed a single, earth-shattering lightning bolt in the barn. I heard Uncle Matt swear. He’d obviously passed by The Rock, and The Rock was irked. The single lightning bolt was from his right hind hoof, ringing his stall indignantly. His own way of cussing, I supposed. I heard the object of the stallion’s disdain clack solidly out of the barn. His step was rhythmic, unflustered. No drama.

Frank came into sight.

I felt my breath catch in my chest. Uncle Matt smoothed the neck of the magnificent gelding that he led toward the trap. The well-dappled gray made my six foot tall uncle look small. I knew my mouth fell open, but I couldn’t devote the necessary attention to shut it at the moment. I was enchanted.

Uncle Matt reached the prefab gate hung at the corner of the trap, lifted the chain, and swung both he and the gelding inside. Frank waited while Matt unbuckled his halter. The gray flexed his spine and took three steps backward before he rolled over his hocks and rocketed for the opposite end of the softly plowed enclosure. It was obvious that not only could he, but that he loved to, run.

Frank made three end-to-end blasts. The three displays of speed satisfied him, so he slowed to a ground-gulping trot. He blew long, rolling snorts at a young black mare that was hopping up and down at the end of her run, inciting her frustrated antics further.

Pleased with himself, Frank trotted to some last wisps of hay and began snapping up the remaining stems with his black lips. The Rock slammed the stall once more and Frank levitated from his stem scavenging, straight up, about three feet. He never looked up, lifted his head or abandoned his quest for stray alfalfa straws. It was the most powerful, graceful, blasé buck I had ever witnessed. Absolutely effortless.

I ghosted over the rail, never taking my eyes off of Frank. When I’d positioned myself closer to him, I clicked one loud, slow click through the side of my mouth. Frank swung his head up and looked straight into my face. I enticed him with another click. He walked deliberately to me and stopped about five feet away. I watched his deep nostrils tremble as he exhaled. He drew in another breath and let it flutter out. He bobbed his head and closed the distance between us.

I felt the air escape his lungs into my upturned palms. He popped his black lips across my hands and toward my chest. He nosed his way across my face, breathing my breath, then stuffed his muzzle into my hair. His next breath blew my hair skyward. Frank rested his chin on my shoulder and continued to breathe into my hair. He must have liked my shampoo! The end of my earring was tickling the edge of his nostril and his nose twitched as he considered nipping at it. I guessed he was content to just let it tickle him because he resisted the urge to investigate with his lips.

We stood there like that. My hands found their way up to his muscular jaws and his bright, inquisitive eyes. He closed them appreciatively as I rubbed my hands over them. They were bigger than my palm and soft as a baby duck. The silver hair inside his ears glinted as he lopped them slightly to the sides as I continued to rub his eyes. Big baby, I thought.

The wiry rancher appeared at my side and was hitching Frank’s halter up over my arm silently. He kept quiet so that I could have my moment and Frank his. I turned my face to Matt and he could see the tear trickling down my cheek. Frank was everything that I’d ever wanted in a horse. He’d predicted accurately that I would fall head over heels in love with him instantly. After all, Matt had shaped my taste in horses, taught me to ride, developed my eye for quality, and molded my ‘politics’ concerning the horse world. The big puzzle’s last, centermost piece slid neatly into place. I realized that Uncle Matt was definitely having his moment, too.

Well, I don’t know what I am gonna to do with all my time, now, he said, smiling at me. I rode the bejesus out of him this summer.

What about the Rock? I asked him as I wiped my face on the sleeve of my shirt. He’s pretty mad. And that black mare in the run?

Yeah, well, the Rock needs to be legged up so I can take him elk hunting and the little black mare is just green. She’s no fun. Think I’m going to sell her in Clovis, he sighed.

Well, come get Frank if you need him, I offered.

No, he’s yours now and you’ll want to spend time with him, Uncle Matt said, looking at the big horse.

’K, I emitted, trying hard not to start the water works again.

Do you want to ride him? Uncle Matt asked.

No, I – I’ll just wait ‘till I get him to the house and mess with him some before I do, I lied. Yes, I wanted to ride him. A million miles across the landscape and to the edge of the ocean where he would swim me across to an island that only he and I knew about. What fairytale was that?

Do you want to eat? Matt spied me. "Better yet, we’re gonna go eat. I’ll follow you and your dad into town and we’ll have some supper. Right?" he said sternly, still looking me up and down.

’K. I let my gaze drop to the ground. He was right. But only if we can go to the Matador. I peeked up from under my shades.

I don’t care where, Matt’s stern voice trailed off. You look like hell.

Jeez! I had really worked it. Long sleeved tee, my favorite belt and Wranglers, left my hair down, earrings, mascara, the whole bit. I should have known I was going to get a ration from him. Uncle Matt didn’t miss much. Correction, he didn’t miss anything.

Chicken stuffed sopaipilla, extra cheese, green chile, and natillas, I told him, trying to look a little more centered.

How about times two? he snorted as he stroked Frank’s back.

Come on, Uncle, I’ve been busy with school, I protested.

Yeah, right, he said under his breath. We’ll talk about it later. You ready? Let’s get him loaded. Before I make you gain fifteen pounds before I send him up there… I heard in my head after he quit speaking.

I was already positioning Frank’s halter over his velvety nose and behind his ears. The worn black line on the strap clued me to the exact fit. I took the lead and started for the gate with my horse stepping closely behind. I could hardly keep from looking at him as I walked. He peered around, silently gloating. How could a beast like him be so expressive? How could a horse be so blasé and almost swagger? He was so cool!

I noticed that my dad had scrambled to the edge of the mesa southeast of the arena and was poking gently through the layers of sediment. It was there that he’d conducted a major archaeological dig four and a half years prior. I knew that he was remembering the excitement of discovery and the satisfaction of evidence. His work had proven conclusively that the Chacoans had a close relationship with this outlying community, and linked them with Mimbrenos thought vanished. Brandon Brumley was lost in thought, staring at the blue, cloudless sky, sitting on his heels as his best friends did. He rose when the squall of the horse trailer gate alerted him that we were loading up. I wanted to join him in the dirt and wait for him to share what he was mulling over, but I was just too wrapped up in Frank at the moment. Big gray horse trumped pottery shards.

I’ll call Claire, Uncle Matt told my dad as he made it to the back of the trailer. She’s in town at the accountant’s. I’ll tell her to meet us at the Matador if that’s okay with you.

Sounds great! my dad exclaimed. We hadn’t seen Claire since Christmas. It’d be wonderful to have supper with her. Dad went to take his post behind the wheel of the Range Rover.

I was actually starting to get hungry. The excitement over Frank was beginning to be manageable, and I was starting to get a bit of perspective. Maybe actually saying the words stuffed sopaipilla and natillas had triggered my appetite. Do-able, maybe.

Frank stepped up into the fresh cedar shavings that I’d piled extra deep in the slant-load. His legs were coal black from his hocks and knees down to the edge of his hooves. No socks at all, I noticed. His tail was just as black as his legs with a skunky little fringe right at the base. Gorgeous.

I swung the gate shut and went to his window to hook the tie to his halter ring. He stuffed his head out of the window and buried his nose in my hair as I tried to negotiate the snap. He did like my shampoo! There were no white markings on his head either. No snip to disrupt the black muzzle, no star to interrupt the pair of gunmetal gray swirls in his forehead. I pushed the window up and got him to pull his head back inside for the 35 mile trip into Socorro. Click.

I pulled my sunglasses down and delivered a one-armed hug to Matt who was standing next to me. I looked up into his face, scrunched up my nose and said, I think I’m getting hungry.

Damn right you’re getting hungry,’ he humphed. I’ll be right behind you guys. Get me some iced tea."

Gotcha, I said as he pulled away from my hug. I strode around the front of the already running Range Rover and hopped inside. We vibrated along at about 35 or 40 miles an hour. The weight of the trailer made it easier to cross the rutted ranch road. Frank never fussed as far as we knew. Matt had dragged him across every square mile of this ranch and inside as many roping arenas as he could over the summer. It showed. Frank was fit.

We reached the highway just after a coyote slinked back into the grama grass, away from our view. It was good to get back onto the smooth pavement. My teeth felt like they might rattle out of my head. Uncle Matt was right behind us even though he’d retrieved his pickup from the house. It was another four miles past the barn.

In the silence of the vehicle, a memory of the previous night’s dream elbowed its way to the front of my thoughts. I was never far from the depression, even as lovely as the afternoon was. The dream was recurrent, with its desperate tone and its steadfastness assuring that I would dream it, or one close to it, again and again. Cord had been carefully polishing an English bridle that was known to both of us as being Punk’s. Tiny, gleaming snaffle and curb. Glittery brass name plate secured to the brow band declaring her accomplishments. The accompanying nausea swept over me again as the details of the dream replayed in my mind.

I felt incapable of banishing the dreams. I missed Cord so much that even the dream-visits from him were precious to me. He’d been seeking my approval for the diligent care he was showing the bridle in the reverie the night before. Was it supple enough? Were the buckles burnished sufficiently? I always nodded in total agreement, contrary to the heartbreak that overwhelmed me. I always smiled bravely to brace his confidence. His glance, his jade green eyes were continually searching for approval.

And there was that one instance, that one fleeting instance, in last night’s dream when Cord shot a look over my shoulder. It’d been a momentary acknowledgement of the sensation that had lurked in the far reaches of my perception. As I woke, I barely, just barely, realized that there was someone else present in the dream with us. Just as briefly, I wondered then who that person had been.

Dad reached across the console with his coppery hand curled loosely around some treasure, distracting me from the memory. I swung my uplifted palm over to him expectantly. He released a beautifully figured triangle, an ancient pottery shard, into my pale hand. His gaze met mine briefly before he returned his eyes to northbound I-25. The triangle was magnificent – creamy eggshell with timeless black strokes applied. What looked like the painted foot of a sacred creature was apparent. Mimbres. Another part of my heart engaged. The analytic, reverent, protective part that loved humankind.

Are you going to re-work the gulch? I asked my father, suppressing my excitement.

Well, I don’t know…. I have to go to Chicago in November. We couldn’t really get on it until April, if it’s not a bad winter.

Frank’s pretty haired-up, I offered. Seems like it’s going to turn cold pretty soon. For early October he was well on his way to his winter coat. There’s not enough time to pull the crew together before you leave. We’d probably just expose stuff that we’d have to cover up until spring, I tried to sound practical and professional, though a shiver of delight was building in me.

I’d written up Brandon Brumley’s Chacoan-Mimbreno work in the gulch. It’d been quite a prestigious assignment for a teenager. Dad credited me when the findings were published. He’d promised me a larger role when he re-opened the dig. Two months before the findings appeared in Anthopology, my little brother died.

I turned my face from my father. I feigned attention to the white stripes vanishing under the horizon of the truck’s hood and swallowed hard for the millionth time. Cord Brumley had only been ten when he died. Though almost two years had passed, it was so hard to live with. Knock it off, I thought to myself.

If you could contact five assistants the by last week of the month – try to get Jack Jameson and Catalina Orozco – then we could contract for the twenty fifth of April, Dad said. I’ll have the paperwork submitted and we’ll get on this. He held his hand out to me again, palm up in invitation. I took it. With my other hand I manipulated the pottery shard to view all sides.

We’ll try to send this out before you graduate, he added, cementing our plan.

Really? I blurted out.

Sure! Dad’s voice rose to match my enthusiasm. He smiled and the happy creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. His stick-straight, ash blonde hair was light, sun bleached, against his perpetual tan. He was one of those people who always looked freshly showered no matter how long he’d been separated from soap or running water.

I heard my phone vibrate in the glove box. Three texts from my boyfriend, Danny.

1:45 pm: ‘sup?

1:50: hey!

3:30: How’s the horse?

Now that we were closing in on the south end of Socorro, my reception had resumed.

Hey, horse is awesome. Name’s Frank. Gonna eat with my dad, Matt, and Claire. Call me this evening.

I hit send and put the phone back in the glove box. At times I couldn’t decide whether Danny bugged me or not. Right then he was way down on my list. Even the thought of going out dancing didn’t hold much sizzle for me. I had an extended date with ‘Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome’ – Frank. I could still smell him on my hands and shirt where he’d nuzzled me. There was still a slight tingle on my neck when I thought of his trusting, velvety muzzle in my hair.

We poked down the main drag in Socorro toward the Matador, Uncle Matt right behind us. Dad pulled in the restaurant/hotel lot and positioned the Range Rover and trailer through two parking spaces.

Uncle Matt parked his pickup next to Claire’s midnight blue sedan. He ran over to my open door and turned his back to me. He squatted down a little, impatiently motioning for me to climb aboard while speaking Spanish into his cell phone. Seventeen and piggy-back into the busiest restaurant in town! I climbed on giggling, hanging on with one hand and saving my sunglasses with the other. He snapped his phone shut, spun me around making whinnying noises, bucking and loping toward the door.

Dad held the glass door open for Uncle Matt and me, knowing better than to interfere with his craziness. No sense in precipitating a huge pout on Matt’s part. He was like dealing with a four-year-old sometimes. Better to just let him do his thing.

He carried me past the register, my face buried in his back, through the front half of the diner. He strode straight to Claire, his rodeo queen, and planted a kiss on her lips. She pushed her chair back a bit from the table and Matt swung me down into Claire’s lap.

Hey, baby! Claire told me as we hugged tightly and rocked back and forth. Her eyes were squished shut, holding back tears.

I was back to squeaking. Hey, Claire, I managed. I missed you so much.

Me too, sweetie, Claire said. I’m coming to Albuquerque next week. We could shop…, she trailed off, her exotic eyes sparkling. I pulled a chair close to her so that we could sit side by side. She looked amazing. Her thick blonde hair was bumped up a little and pulled back into a ponytail. No makeup. None needed. Sandcast earrings dangled from her barely exposed ears. She wore a black long sleeved t-shirt with black over-dyed jeans. She had on those black crepe-soled boots I wanted to swipe and smelled expensive.

My Dad kissed Claire’s hand in an unspoken greeting. He seated himself next to me to enjoy the reunion.

Claire was a blast to shop with. Books, tack, clothes, makeup, perfume… all the good things in life. Shopping! Perfect!

Matt was quite pleased with his antics and his ‘girls’ – Claire and me. My dad was grinning ear-to-ear. Matt became even more full of himself when our food magically materialized. The waitress delivered our favorites, obviously the recipient of Matt’s covert phone-in order. At least I didn’t have time to re-think and adjust the size of the meal I had rattled to him earlier. Matt had mercifully let the ‘times two’ slide for the moment. The food was hot, aromatic, and leaking over the edges of heavy plates. Just the way comida Nuevo Mexicano should.

I compartmentalized the banter while wrestling with the urge to inspect Frank anew. Matt would chide me for treating him like a show horse and would be none too pleased if I didn’t eat well. I fidgeted privately.

Claire reached over without changing the pace of her conversation and squeezed my elbow knowingly. She would have been anxious to fuss over her mare, Tangle, if she had been in the lot. Tangled in Talent was a perfect blue grulla that Claire – and half of the state – worshipped. She had been Matt’s Christmas present to Claire four years ago. A present Claire loved more and more as time went by.

I enjoyed the feeling of filling my stomach. That was different. Surprising, actually. Endorphins spilled into my brain from the sting of the chile. I could feel the chemical reaction.

Matt shoved his chair back from his nearly finished chiles rellenos, excused himself, and headed for the door. He returned moments later with an envelope and a handmade blackened snaffle bit. He laid them on the table next to my plate. Frank’s new bit. I rolled it over in my hands and admired the quality.

Eddie B.? I questioned Matt.

Yeah. We measured Frank’s mouth in August at the USTRC in Gallup, he answered, pleased that I had remembered his association with the renowned blacksmith. I hauled him up there two weekends back and he shod him for you and I picked up his bit.

Cool! I cooed. The bit bore a silver figured ‘Rafter C’ on each shank, subtly reminding those in the know of Frank’s heritage. They matched the hot brand on Frank’s right hip. The shiny black scar showed perfectly through the silver spider webs dappling his massive hips. Uncle Matt’s way of sending a message.

I traded my attention to the contents of the unmarked, but slightly fingerprinted envelope.

Oh! I gasped. It held Frank’s American Quarter Horse Association registration papers, already recorded in my name.

Registered Name: Rafter C Don’t Givadam

Foaled: May 31, 2003

Sire: Rafter C Rock Ur World Dam: Rafter C Scarlett

Color: Grey, no white markings. Brand: Ĉ right hip.

Breeder: Matt and Claire Brumley, Magdelena, NM.

Owner: Carly Brumley, Peralta, New Mexico.

I didn’t think you’d mind if I forged your signature, Matt eyed me.

Of course not! I replied. Works for me.

Claire shot Matt a disapproving look. What if she hadn’t liked him? she grilled her husband.

Whatever, Claire, Matt said dismissively. He was so cocky at times. He knew I was going to be gaga. He was just simmering in his own juice. Claire’s failed reprimand ricocheted off him like he was bullet proof. I bet she did get a little weary of his over-the-top confidence at times.

It was time to go. Claire would call me about shopping, Dad would supply Matt with permits for the dig, I would keep Matt posted re Frank’s transition. Papers and bit in hand, I led the retreat to the vehicles.

Tip-toed, I unlatched the window of Frank’s trailer compartment and he eagerly lowered his face. I rubbed his eyes and planted a quick kiss on his muzzle. Promptly he snorted moist bits of alfalfa all over my face and shirt. Great! I hissed. Oh, who was I kidding? I loved it. I shut his window.

Claire was headed back to the accountant and Uncle Matt to the ranch. Each kissed me goodbye in turn. Dad and I bumped out of the neglected lot, drove up Main Street at a snail’s pace, and merged onto northbound I-25.

I checked my cell phone again. Danny had chilled a little – no new texts. I texted my sister, Cameron, and asked her to feed my little pinto, Punk - she’d be feeding her smelly old sheep anyway. It was ten after five. Maybe she would throw her some hay. Maybe not. Cam’s agenda was different than mine.

I was so full that my eyelids felt heavy. The quiet hum of the Range Rover seemed to be anesthetizing me. My nerves were lax for the first time in days.

Soon I was propped against the door, drifting in half-dreams of gray horse hair, patterned pottery shards, and comforting laughter. I thought I could feel the chalky edges of the piece of pottery gain dimension. Its geometry was cool and airy – larger than its physicality. Its position in my right front Wrangler pocket spurred some hypersensitivity to it. Dad decelerated just then and my trance broke. We were taking the off ramp toward home.

Tired, honey? my dad asked.

No, I yawned, I just ate too much. I grinned at him.

Are you and Danny going out later? He was looking attentively toward the now crowded road.

I was thinking about it, I mumbled, still a little groggy.

He let it drop. He knew I was on the fence about Danny. He was handsome and shy and came from a professional rodeo family. I was content to go to the occasional dance, take in a movie once in a while, or hang out, as I didn’t want to be perceived as the typical high school cowgirl. I wasn’t interested in ‘hooking up’.

Danny’s talent as an artist was another story, though, and intrigued me. He tooled leather and drew. His ability was so special and I loved it when he worked on his creations and just let me watch. It was those few times that I had gotten a glimpse of Danny that really got to me. Artistic, observant, detail-oriented.

Chapter 2

The early evening sunlight sparkled in the cottonwoods as we crossed the river toward home. I let the road-sign yellow brilliance penetrate my view without my sunglasses to filter. How could you not feel good with the seasonal treasure, right?

Dad pulled off of Highway 47 to meander back toward our drive. A short distance of rain ruts and we pulled up in front of the house. He relinquished the wheel to let me position the trailer in the yard where I wanted it. We had such a nice balance of give and take. He was expert at observing, supplementing, or withdrawing from an exchange as necessary. It was his lifetime of existing with people that he shared no spoken language with. People who he studied but did not impose upon. People that he respected. Though he’d spent more time aboard horses than a lot of so-called cowboys, he had no need to prove his expertise in that realm. He was already almost inside our house, in the arms of his deepest love – my mom.

When I rounded the hood of the Range Rover, I heard Punk’s high-pitched nicker. Thanks, Cam, I thought. Apparently she couldn’t be bothered to toss her some hay. I bet those stupid sheep were fed, watered, socked, and snug in their pen, though. My sister could be such a creep. No plaintive sound alerted me to their neglect.

I whipped the trailer around and backed down the drive, leaving enough space behind me for Frank to get out. As I cut the engine, I could hear my phone buzzing in the glove box. Danny: 5:47 Hey, you home? Me: Yup.

I pulled out my iPod, put in my ear phones and headed for Punk’s stall. I glanced at the lambs – sure enough they were wearing their turquoise slinkies, bedded down together in a head-to-tail threesome. Phone buzzed: Danny: 5:49 – What time should I pick you up? Me: Sure, 8:30. Are Mike and Shelly going? We’d made plans to go to a school dance sponsored by the rodeo club. It was sure to be country and rock. Danny: 5:50 – Yeah, problems? Of course not! Mike was Danny’s best friend and was just too much fun. Always cracking us all up, always in a terrific mood. No prob. See you at 8:30, and I hit send.

I rationed out a liberal armload of hay for Punk and scooped up her ‘old lady’ grain. My bay and white pinto was seven years older than me. She acted like a very young horse, but I loved to pamper her with the ration for geriatric equine. I hoped to love her well into her thirties.

She chortled as I put her food in her lowered hay rack and lowered bucket. At barely fourteen hands, she could just see over the stall gate. I gave her a big hug for waiting for her dinner.

Wyatt! I clapped my hands together and my little Aussie loped eagerly to my waiting arms. He blinked his Taos-blue-sky-eyes at me, wiggling and wriggling playfully. He huffed and mock-growled while I grabbed hands full of his blue merle coat and shook him. He took my wrist with his dove-soft mouth and grr-ed. I wished I’d taken him with me to the ranch.

Quickly, Wyatt’s tongue-lolling sideways leaps alerted me to his wish to know who or what was inside the trailer. Okay, okay, I followed his lead. He obviously had me well trained.

I unhooked Frank’s trailer tie while Wyatt bowed and yapped. That’s enough, I got on his case a little. Down. Wyatt dropped in place and blinked at me. Wait, I commanded and took the bar away from Frank’s hips. He stepped out of the trailer as I grabbed his lead rope. One large, rolling snort signaled his arrival. I stood, awed by the gelding.

Frank followed me into the barn alley and I switched on the lights. Okay, I told Wyatt and he bounced over to me. Frank lowered his black nostrils to sniff Wyatt’s white muzzle. The object of my devotion for five years and my new devotee acquainted themselves as if in a watercolor.

Punk bumped her little chin the length of the stall desperately trying to engage the newcomer. Frank swam into the sea of fresh shavings that I’d prepared for him before the sun came up that morning. He was enough of a gentleman to go directly to sniff Punk. She took three breaths, pinned her ears, and wheeled back to her hay. At least she didn’t scream at him. She could be a little witch. Frank just blinked at the bars separating them. My treasured spirit-horse dismissed my new charger with a toss of her pretty, chiseled head.

I tied him to the loop inside the stall. My first act was going to be to deliver a luxurious grooming. I began with the palm-sized rubber curry and gave him a circular going over. Frank was very appreciative, lowering his head so I could reach his poll. Right behind where his cinch rode a spot triggered his scratching reflex. He really liked the currying at the base of his tail. I brushed him all over with my rice root brush, my arm aching toward the end. There was a lot of landscape to cover. I switched to my left hand for the finishing brush and then hooked out his hooves. He was quite mannerly for the whole process. But then, Uncle Matt wouldn’t have put up with any monkey business in that department.

I filled Frank’s hay rack with