Meg Harris’s home sat at the back of an open field with towering ponderosa pines on both sides of a long gravel drive. A rust-red barn on the left, a house on the right.
Alone in a pen behind the barn, a five-year-old bay mustang with a black mane lifted its head as Meg and her family drove in after Meg’s 4-H demonstration. The horse had white socks on three legs and a ragged, off-center white blaze that shot down his forehead like a drunken lightning bolt.
His name was Amigo.
Meg had had him for three months. He’d been one of hundreds of wild horses caught up in last year’s Bureau of Land Management’s gather in Wyoming. A man had adopted him, but he and Amigo never took to each other. So he’d put him up for sale.
Meg’s parents agreed to let her buy the horse, with her own money, if he looked good. Just the fact that the horse was unwanted made her want him.
Her brother Jacob drove her over.
“You’ll never tame that one,” the owner said. “He’s wild as a wolf.”
The mustang was in a small pen. Meg and Jacob stood at the fence and watched it awhile. It was wild-eyed, scarred, and snorty. Its ribs showed, with nicks all over his legs. The horse tried to climb the enclosure, banging and kicking the rails.
Jacob winced. “I don’t know, sis. That horse might not let you or anyone else get near it.”
“He’s not used to being penned up.”
Jacob looked at the owner. “You ride it yet?”
“Ride it? I can barely put a rope around its neck. I thought I could break him, but I don’t want to get killed trying.”
“I’ll take him,” Meg said, pulling out a wad of cash. “This enough?”
The guy grabbed the money and stuffed it into his pocket without counting it. “More than enough.”
Now, Meg called over to Amigo as she got out of the Jeep. “Hello, my sweet. Did you miss me today?”
Her dad laughed. “Sweet?”
“You’ll see.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Meg had another horse, a ten-year-old mare named Molly Montana. Didn’t flick an ear when you put a saddle on her.
This was the day Meg would risk introducing Molly to Amigo. You never really knew, but she believed the two horses would get along.
An hour later, Meg brushed Molly’s sleek, silky black coat in the cool interior of the barn. “Amigo’s going to think he’s died and gone to heaven when you walk into that pasture to meet him.”
Meg hugged Molly’s neck, hoping that was true.
So far the day had gone well. At the demonstration, a woman had jokingly told her that from here on out, she’d be known around town as the Ornery-Horse Whisperer of Sisters. Meg smiled, though she believed that ornery just meant uncared-for or misunderstood.
“How ’bout it, Molly-girl?” she said. “You want to meet a handsome guy?”
Molly cocked an ear.
“You do, huh?”
Molly huffed and nudged Meg with her feathery muzzle.
Meg kissed Molly’s nose. It was so unfair that such magnificent animals couldn’t talk to humans. Or maybe they did, and humans just weren’t very good listeners.
A gunshot startled them. Molly tossed her head and stepped back.
“Easy,” Meg whispered, holding her by the cheek strap. “We’ll be out of here in a minute.”
She led the horse out into the sunlight.
“Hey, Meg! Come try your hand at a pop can.”
Her brother Jeremy and his best friend, Dex, were target practicing with tin cans lined up on a few bales of hay.
“Can’t. Got to take Molly out.”
Just then, one of the barn cats darted out from the stacked hay behind the targets.
Dex raised his rifle.
“Don’t!” Meg shouted.
Bam!
The bullet blasted the dirt just behind the cat’s tail. The cat leaped straight up, then landed, stumbled, and raced around the side of the barn.
Dex and Jeremy laughed as Meg yelled, “What are you doing?”
“What?” Dex said, his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t hit it.”
“You’re sick! You scared her half to death!”
She grabbed a hank of mane, jumped up onto Molly’s bare back, and loped away.