The Filly Across the Road

Donna from the mill counter told half of the people who bought feed that week, and that is a lot of people in a horse county.

People started stopping at Dale’s fence on their way to Wade’s. Not to say anything about Wade.

Just to watch Kenzie for a lap or two and say, “Looking good, kiddo,” or ask the filly’s breeding, or tell me I was holding my lunge whip too high.

By the middle of October, Tammy had moved her two trail horses to a barn over by Warner.

Rick moved his granddaughter’s gelding to his own place and built a run-in shed for it. Neither one of them made a show of it. They just loaded up one Saturday and went.

It wasn’t a happy thing to know, that two had gone. I had not wanted Wade ruined. I’d wanted my daughter’s horse.

I’d wanted, if I’m honest, for somebody to just tell the truth out loud about what happened. And now somebody had.

The phone call came on a Tuesday night, the second week of October.

A man’s voice, older, a little gravelly, with the slow way of talking that comes from that end of the state down toward the river.

“Is this Mrs. Kraus?” he asked. “My name’s Ron Mercer. I live outside Stigler. I bought a bay gelding off Wade Coffman back in July. Horse called Dash.”

I had to sit down on the arm of the couch.

“Mrs. Hale tracked me down through some folks at the Stigler sale barn and called me,” he said.

“She told me some things I didn’t know. I want you to understand, ma’am, I didn’t know any of it. Wade told me the family had given up on him.”

“I believe you,” I said. And I did. You can hear it, in a man’s voice, when he’s telling the truth and it’s costing him something.

“I bought him for my granddaughter,” Ron said. “She’s twelve. She’s just starting to run barrels. And I’ll tell you something, he’s been the best thing that ever happened to her. He takes care of her like she’s made of glass.”

“He did that for Kenzie too,” I said, and my voice gave out halfway through.

Ron was quiet on the line for a while. “I can’t give him back, Mrs. Kraus,” he said.

“I wish I could make this right that way. But my granddaughter’s already lost one thing this year. Her mama’s deployed. I can’t take this from her too.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” I said. “That wouldn’t be right either. Two girls without a horse instead of one.”

“But I was thinking,” he said. “If your girl wanted to come down and see him. Ride him, if her doctor says she can. Just once. Say goodbye properly. I’d like that. And I think he would too.”

I looked over at Kenzie, who was on the living room floor doing her leg lifts and pretending not to listen. Her face had gone very still.

“I’ll ask her,” I said. But I didn’t have to.

We drove down to Stigler that Saturday. Ron and his wife had a little place on the edge of town with a pipe arena and a white house with a porch swing.

His granddaughter was there, a skinny girl with red hair and freckles, standing by the arena gate with Dash on a lead rope.

Dash lifted his head when we got out of the car. Kenzie got halfway across the yard, and he nickered.