Their heads turned in her
direction as she passed. Occasionally she stopped to pet a
particular animal owned by an acquaintance. She grew excited by
the smell of the horses, the dust, the feed, and the dryness, and
was glad she had decided to come here to ride. When she wasn't
shopping or doing the other things that consumed the hours of her
day, this was her passion, being here at the ranch with these
beautiful, powerful creatures.
Stall 28, at the end of a long row, held Mighty Boy, her
four-year-old thoroughbred stallion. So black he was almost
purple, Mighty Boy had been a gift from Matthew when they had
moved to California.
"Hi sweetie," Greta said, stroking the animal's head. She nuzzled
her face into his cheek, her chestnut hair mixing and mingling
with his black mane. The horse nodded and whinnied, happy for her
arrival.
"Hello, Mrs. Locke," said Jennifer, the ranch's owner. She was a
solid woman with white-gray hair and eternally sun-squinted eyes.
"What a happy boy he is," Jennifer said. "Everyone who sees him
is in awe of his beauty."
"He is a pretty boy, isn't he?" Greta said. She paused to
appraise the animal for a moment before leading him out of his
stall.
Jennifer slipped Mighty Boy a treat and patted his head.
"Gorgeous day for a ride."
"Truly," Greta agreed. Peripherally, a movement caught her eye.
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