—
She was nineteen the first time she saw the wild horses. She’d taken a job working the night shift at the front desk of a privately owned hotel in Grand Junction. She was paid minimum wage and a room to stay in that came with a small refrigerator and cooktop stove. In the afternoons, after getting some sleep, she would climb in her truck and explore the terrain looking for the bands of mustangs in the Book Cliffs. She never found the band outside Grand Junction, but one day she headed north to Moffat County, and off Highway 318 in the Sand Wash Basin northwest of the small town of Maybell, she saw a beautiful sorrel stallion cresting the hill, and soon to follow were at least a dozen mustangs. She pulled her truck off to the side of the road and got out. The horses ignored her at first and began grazing on the hill about a hundred yards in front of her. Then another truck pulled over, shut off its engine, and a middle-aged woman joined her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The woman’s voice was calm, almost a whisper.
“I’ve never seen anything like this. I can’t believe I’m here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Tennessee.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman’s face was tanned from the wind. A long black braid hung over her shoulder. She was wearing overalls and a man’s white T-shirt. “He’s watching us,” the woman said.
The stallion was standing alert, as if paying attention to every move Amy Raye and the woman made. “See that one up there?” The woman pointed to a gray roan. “That’s the boss mare.”
“How can you tell?”
“Just watch.”
Despite the distance, Amy Raye was sure she could hear the stallion snorting. He lifted his head toward the roan.
“He’s communicating to the head mama,” the woman said.
The mare lifted her head. She moved around the other horses as if trying to get their attention and then began trotting toward the stallion. Within seconds, all of the horses were running at a strong gallop, and the stallion closed in behind them.
“He’s protecting the others. That’s why they band together,” the woman told Amy Raye. “For companionship and protection. In a healthy band, the lead stallion and the mare will usually stay together for life, and the mare will never abandon her foals.”
“Kind of like people,” Amy Raye said.
But the woman didn’t miss Amy Raye’s sarcasm. “Don’t we wish.”
They watched the horses until they were gone from sight.
“Well, I best be feeding my own horses,” the woman said. “You got a place to stay?”
“I’m working in Grand Junction.”
“You been there long?”
“About a month. I have a job at a hotel.”
“I manage a big stable operation in Steamboat Springs. I can always use an extra set of strong hands. My name’s A.J. If you’re ever interested, give me a call. I’m listed under equine trainers.”
“I’ll do that,” Amy Raye said. “I really will.”
“What’s your name? So I’ll know who you are when you call.”
Amy Raye introduced herself and shook the woman’s hand.
After the woman drove away, Amy Raye walked up the hill to where the horses had been. She looked out over the horizon, trying to see if she could see them, but they had moved on. Then she sat on the hill and pressed her palms against the soil where the horses had stood as if she could feel the movement of their hooves. She stayed out there till dusk, when the coyotes began to yip and she knew she needed to get back for her shift. She grabbed a fistful of the dirt and continued to hold it in her hand, even as she drove to the hotel. She thought about the soil she’d put in her pocket the last time she’d stopped by her grandparents’ farm, and she wondered if losing it was some kind of omen or an act of pure carelessness. She’d stopped overnight in Oakley, Kansas, and had washed her clothes at a Laundromat. She’d forgotten about the contents of her shorts pocket until she’d taken the shorts out of the dryer.
Back in her room in Grand Junction, she sifted the soil from the wild horses into a sandwich bag, and set the bag on the nightstand beside her bed. Just a month later, Amy Raye finished her last day at the hotel and moved to Steamboat Springs. And all those years later, she still had the dirt from where the wild horses had stood. She kept it in a jar next to her and Farrell’s bed, and beside Saddle’s ashes.
PRU