Chapter 24: The Black Colt

Juniper went down in the straw at ten minutes to three, and the barn went quiet.

It was the first week of July, and the nights were warm.

Every light in the foaling aisle was on.

Hank leaned in the stall door with his arms folded. Dessa knelt by the mare's head with a wet cloth, murmuring to her.

She had been keeping the ranch books since May, and she had moved into the bunk room for good in June.

Her father had pleaded guilty to arson and forgery in the same week. Nobody on Gentry Ridge had said his name since.

"Water's broken," Dessa said.

"I see it." I pulled my sleeves up past my elbows.

My mother's denim jacket hung on the nail by the door.

A thin gold ring sat on the same nail, because I took it off to work.

Wayne had put it on my hand the night of the fire, and I had said yes before he finished the question.

We were getting married in September, under the cottonwood.

Wayne stood at the foot of the stall with his hat off.

"Two hooves," he said quietly. "Soles down. That's right."

"I know what's right." I knelt in the straw. "I learned from the best."

He smiled at that. It was the smile he saved for when I couldn't see.

Juniper strained, groaned, and strained again.

The foal came in a long wet slide, in the white sac, with its legs folded and its nose tucked between them.

I tore the sac from its face with my hands and cleared its nostrils with my fingers.

For one second, nothing happened.

Then the foal shook its head and sneezed, and Hank said a word I had never heard him say in front of Dessa.

"A colt," I said. My voice cracked. "He's a colt, and he's black."

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