Page 48 of Broken Cedar

The hat disappears off my head. Colt laughs. A real laugh. Warm. Easy. The kind that bubbles out before he can stop it. I stare at him.

“What?” he asks.

“I forgot you did that.”

He shakes his head, still grinning. “I laugh.”

“Not like that.” I say. The filly finally drops my hat into the dirt. I pick it up, dust it off with exaggerated offence and point a finger at her. “We’re done being friends.” She blinks at me, entirely unapologetic.

Colt scratches her neck as he walks past. “She’s got good instincts.”

I swat a handful of loose dirt toward his boots. Most of it misses, but one dusty clump catches his jeans.

He looks down at it. Looks back at me. “You really wanna do that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My grin widens.

He bends, scoops up a tiny handful of dry dirt and flicks it at me. It catches my sleeve. I gasp dramatically. “How dare you.”

“You started it.”

“You absolutely started it.”

For one ridiculous minute we stand there grinning. Neither of us throws another handful. We just grin at each other while twenty impatient yearlings continue toward the south pasture as though supervising two overgrown children.

“Think we’re setting a good example?” I ask.

“For the horses?”

“For the ranch.”

Colt watches the last of the herd disappear through the gate. “I think they’ll survive.”

Still smiling, we fall into step behind the herd, close enough to redirect strays, far enough back that the horses don’t feel pursued.

When we reach the south pasture, Colt opens the gate and the yearlings spill through. Some gallop, kicking up divots, testing their legs on the open grass. Others drop their heads immediately and start grazing.

One of the younger horses decides, after successfully following twenty other horses through the gate, that this is the exact moment in his life where independence becomes important. He plants his feet and Colt sighs.

“He’s got opinions,” I say.

“He’s been here two months.”

I cross my arms. “Still. Strong personality.”

Colt gives me a look.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re defending a horse.”

“He has a point.” The colt swishes his tail as if in agreement.

“The point is that he doesn’t want to move.”

“That’s still a point.” I gesture toward the colt with an open hand, as if presenting evidence.

I step forward, trying to coax the colt along. The horse takes one step. Then another. Then, apparently deciding he has made his contribution to the conversation, he shakes his head and sends a spray of mud directly across my jeans. There is a beat of silence. Then Colt howls with laughter. God, I’d forgotten how much I’d missed that sound.