Mystic Horseman

Dillon Black slept with the horses.Not the best bedfellows he'd ever had, but far from the worst. Most of them were heavy with foal, and there wasn't a nag in the herd. Having slept with his own kind of overdue female, Dillon would know. But some studs just naturally had it made. Others were only human.South Dakota sod was not the most comfortable bed he'd ever had, either, but the view was incomparable. His blanket was made of stars. From where he lay on the rise above the Grand River, he could see every square foot of ground he truly cared about, even on the darkest night. The prairie was never fully dark or completely quiet. Something was always happening.Lovemaking, for instance. The flat at the foot of his sleeping hill rolled all the way to the place where Earth spread her grassy hair about her shoulders, made her knees into two hills, opened her legs and let the night sky prevail. She took her voice from the coyote and her breath from the night breeze. She was enjoying herself. Dillon could feel it in her rocky bones, and it was all to the good, as long as the coyotes and the cats kept their distance from his mares. He kept his hunting rifle in plain view, hoping any predators who might be sitting on the fence would take it as reason enough to hang back. That and the fact that Dillon was actually wearing his glasses. He never missed when he remembered to wear his glasses.And he was about to see a miracle happen not fifty yards away. Closer, if need be. Sugar, the baldface dun he'd been watching over, had already blown her water. She'd been up and down a few times, and she'd extruded two twiggy legs. She was down for the count now. Fifteen minutes, tops. But she was nervous, and it wasn't about the foal. It wasn't about Dillon, who knew better than to crowd a foaling mustang. There was something out there, something that was all teeth and claws. And for the next fifteen minutes there would be nothing the mare could do about it. Every part of her was committed now to giving birth.Rifle in hand, Dillon eased his way down the slope. The mare had picked herself an open spot where she couldn't easily be trapped. All she needed was a little time, and she would have her baby on its feet and running with the herd, probably by sunup. She lifted her head and eyeballed her guardian, letting him know he was too close. He took her cue, squatted on his heels and laid the rifle on the ground.From this angle, the mare seemed to float on the moonlit river, adrift in a spillway of stars. It was the perfect vision for a moment like this. Dillon and his partner called their ranch The Wolf Trail, after the Lakota name for the Milky Way. It was a grand gesture on the part of two Indian cowboys who'd hit the ground hard and earned their re-ride.But what the hell? Wasn't this the Grand River? It flowed from past to present, gathering strength from winter's sleep and power from the spring equinox. The great Sitting Bull had lived and died on its banks only a few miles upstream. And tonight Dillon imagined the old man kicking some of those stars loose and sending them tumbling home to brighten the night for the granddaughter of one of his favorite horses, for such was the heritage of Wolf Trail Mustangs.Sugar grunted. Scoffing at him, was she? Dillon shook his head. The mare had about as much time for a man as a mite right about now. Female heritage, the instinct to survive and produce another survivor, that was her be-all and end-all at the moment. In the moment, if horses had moments. If horses had wishes--if they were wishes... How did that go?How about, If wishes were horses, Sitting Bull's people would ride? The descendants of Sitting Bull's people would ride the descendants of Sitting Bull's horses if Dillon's horse would get her wish and produce another survivor. That was the way it should go, would go, as long as Dillon kept the teeth and claws at bay."Easy, girl. I know there's something out tEagle, Kathleen is the author of 'Mystic Horseman', published 2008 under ISBN 9780778325147 and ISBN 0778325148.