Dad said we’re taking her to auction.”
“What! Sell her?”
I corralled Bill. “Please give her a chance. Let her grow up on the ranch,” I begged. “Then Scott can saddle-break her when she’s two. With her sweet nature, she’ll be worth something to someone by then.”
“I guess one more horse won’t hurt for the time being,” he said. “We’ll put her down on the east pasture. There’s not much grazing there, but . . .” Angel was safe for now.
Two weeks later, she was at the front door eating the dry food from our watchdog’s bowl. She’d slipped the chain off the pasture gate and let herself out—plus ten other horses as well. By the time Scott and Bill had rounded them up, I could see that Bill’s patience was wearing thin.
Over time, her assortment of tricks grew. When Bill or Scott drove to the field, she’d eat the rubber off the windshield wipers. If they left a window open, she’d snatch a rag, glove or notebook off the front seat, then run like the wind.
Surprisingly, Bill began forgiving Angel’s pranks. When an Appaloosa buyer would arrive, she’d come running at a gallop, slide to a stop thirty feet away, and back up to have her rump scratched. “We have our own circus right here,” Bill told buyers. By now, a small smile was even showing through Scott’s thick mustache.
The seasons rolled by. Blazing sun turned to rain—and brought flies by the millions. One day, when Angel was two-and-a-half, I saw Scott leading her to the barn. “She gets no protection at all from that stupid tail,” he told me. “I’m gonna make her a new one.” That’s when I realized Scott’s feelings for the horse were starting to change.
The next morning I couldn’t help smiling as Scott cut and twisted two dozen strands of bright-yellow baling twine into a long string mop and fastened it with tape around Angel’s bandaged tail. “There,” he said. “She looks almost like a normal horse.”
Scott decided to try to “break” Angel for riding. Bill and I sat on the corral fence as he put the saddle on. Angel humped her back. “We’re gonna have a rodeo here!” I whispered. But as Scott tightened the cinch around Angel’s plump middle, she didn’t buck, as many other young horses would. She simply waited.
When Scott climbed aboard and applied gentle pressure with his knees, the willing heart of the Appaloosa showed. He ordered her forward, and she responded as though she’d been ridden for years. I reached up and scratched the bulging forehead. “Someday she’s going to make a terrific trail-riding horse,” I said.
“With a temperament like this,” Scott replied, “someone could play polo off her. Or she could be a great kid’s horse.” Even Scott was having a few dreams for our plain brown Appaloosa with the funny-colored tail.
At foaling time, Angel whinnied to the newborns as though each one were her own. “We ought to breed her,” I said to Bill. “She’s four. With her capacity to love, imagine what a good mother she’d make.”
Bill thought this was a good idea. So did Scott. “People often buy bred mares,” he said. “Maybe we’d find a home for her.” Suddenly I saw an expression on Scott’s face I hadn’t seen before. Could he really care? I wondered.
During the winter months of her pregnancy, Angel seemed to forget about escaping from her corral. Then in early April, as she drew closer to her due date, a heavy rain came and our fields burst to life. We worried Angel would once more start slipping through the gates in her quest for greener pastures.
One morning, I was starting breakfast when Scott came through the kitchen door. His hazel eyes loomed dark beneath his broad-brimmed Stetson. “It’s Angel,” he said softly. “You better come. She got out of the corral last night.”
Trying to hold back my fears, I followed Scott to his pickup. “She’s had her foal somewhere,” he said, “but Dad and I couldn’t find it. She’s . . .
“What! Sell her?”
I corralled Bill. “Please give her a chance. Let her grow up on the ranch,” I begged. “Then Scott can saddle-break her when she’s two. With her sweet nature, she’ll be worth something to someone by then.”
“I guess one more horse won’t hurt for the time being,” he said. “We’ll put her down on the east pasture. There’s not much grazing there, but . . .” Angel was safe for now.
Two weeks later, she was at the front door eating the dry food from our watchdog’s bowl. She’d slipped the chain off the pasture gate and let herself out—plus ten other horses as well. By the time Scott and Bill had rounded them up, I could see that Bill’s patience was wearing thin.
Over time, her assortment of tricks grew. When Bill or Scott drove to the field, she’d eat the rubber off the windshield wipers. If they left a window open, she’d snatch a rag, glove or notebook off the front seat, then run like the wind.
Surprisingly, Bill began forgiving Angel’s pranks. When an Appaloosa buyer would arrive, she’d come running at a gallop, slide to a stop thirty feet away, and back up to have her rump scratched. “We have our own circus right here,” Bill told buyers. By now, a small smile was even showing through Scott’s thick mustache.
The seasons rolled by. Blazing sun turned to rain—and brought flies by the millions. One day, when Angel was two-and-a-half, I saw Scott leading her to the barn. “She gets no protection at all from that stupid tail,” he told me. “I’m gonna make her a new one.” That’s when I realized Scott’s feelings for the horse were starting to change.
The next morning I couldn’t help smiling as Scott cut and twisted two dozen strands of bright-yellow baling twine into a long string mop and fastened it with tape around Angel’s bandaged tail. “There,” he said. “She looks almost like a normal horse.”
Scott decided to try to “break” Angel for riding. Bill and I sat on the corral fence as he put the saddle on. Angel humped her back. “We’re gonna have a rodeo here!” I whispered. But as Scott tightened the cinch around Angel’s plump middle, she didn’t buck, as many other young horses would. She simply waited.
When Scott climbed aboard and applied gentle pressure with his knees, the willing heart of the Appaloosa showed. He ordered her forward, and she responded as though she’d been ridden for years. I reached up and scratched the bulging forehead. “Someday she’s going to make a terrific trail-riding horse,” I said.
“With a temperament like this,” Scott replied, “someone could play polo off her. Or she could be a great kid’s horse.” Even Scott was having a few dreams for our plain brown Appaloosa with the funny-colored tail.
At foaling time, Angel whinnied to the newborns as though each one were her own. “We ought to breed her,” I said to Bill. “She’s four. With her capacity to love, imagine what a good mother she’d make.”
Bill thought this was a good idea. So did Scott. “People often buy bred mares,” he said. “Maybe we’d find a home for her.” Suddenly I saw an expression on Scott’s face I hadn’t seen before. Could he really care? I wondered.
During the winter months of her pregnancy, Angel seemed to forget about escaping from her corral. Then in early April, as she drew closer to her due date, a heavy rain came and our fields burst to life. We worried Angel would once more start slipping through the gates in her quest for greener pastures.
One morning, I was starting breakfast when Scott came through the kitchen door. His hazel eyes loomed dark beneath his broad-brimmed Stetson. “It’s Angel,” he said softly. “You better come. She got out of the corral last night.”
Trying to hold back my fears, I followed Scott to his pickup. “She’s had her foal somewhere,” he said, “but Dad and I couldn’t find it. She’s . . .
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