Chapter 24: Her Foal

The grey mare went down in her stall at three in the morning on the second of April, a year less ten days from the morning I first asked.

Ward woke me with one hand on my shoulder.

"She's started."

I was out of bed before he finished the sentence.

We walked across the yard in the dark with the frost cracking under our boots, and the lantern light was gold against the barn door.

The county records office had a new line in it now.

Standifer and Maddox, joint owners, filed in September.

The hands had called it the wedding.

The cook had called it overdue.

The grey mare lay in the straw with her sides heaving.

This was the foal I had bred myself in the spring, from the first cover in the ledger to the last vet check.

I had chosen the cross and the date.

I knelt behind her and checked, and I felt the small hooves, both front feet, nose resting on top of them.

"Right presentation," I said.

"Good."

"I can feel her pushing."

"Let her work," Ward said. "You wait."

He knelt beside me and didn't touch the mare.

He didn't touch me, either.

He only stayed close enough that I could feel his warmth along my arm.

When the next contraction came I took hold of the forelegs and drew, gently, with the mare's push.

The foal slid out into my hands.

She was wet and dark and long-legged, with a white star on her forehead, and for a moment she lay without breathing.

I cleared her nose with my fingers and rubbed her ribs.

She sneezed.

Then she lifted her head and looked at me with enormous, wet, astonished eyes.

I started to cry.

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