STRENGTH AND HONOR

by Norm Nason

 

 

      He chose a spot beneath a live oak, shady and cool, not so close to encounter roots but one affording a view of the pasture at sunrise, with its wildflowers and corral and sturdy barn with its red cupola rising stately over the parched ranch land.

       He had buried men and horses before but never his own, and presently rested from the effort, breathing heavily with his arms crossed over the shovel handle, flies circling his head, and watched the clouds drift by and change shapes. He listened to the distant mooing of cattle and two crows tangling on the split-rail fence, and felt the warm sage breeze against his neck.

      It was well into afternoon when he finished digging. He sat on the edge of the hole in the ground, shirtless, sweaty, and poured a cup of iced coffee from his thermos.

      “I’m sorry, Dusty,” came a voice behind him.

      “Thank you, Emma,” he said, not turning to look at her. 

      She squatted beside the dead horse lying flat on the ground, legs tied with ropes to a pickup truck the color of rust. A warm breeze blew her hair across her eyes, which she brushed aside with the back of her hand. “You’ve done good work for us. We consider you family. Just ask if there’s anything we can do.”

      “No,” Dusty said. “I’ll be alright.” 

      “Sarah was a good horse.”

      “Yes.”

      “A big help around here. A real sweetheart.”

      Head down, Dusty nodded.

      “If Cliff weren’t in Loredo he’d-a helped ya.”

      “I know that. I’m grateful for the time off.”

      “Of course. You take whatever you need.”

      Dusty said nothing. 

      “Well then, I’ll leave you to it.”

      “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

      He watched her walk down the grassy hill toward her ranch house, hips swaying in her jeans.

Dusty used his truck to drag the horse into the hole, untied her legs, then hauled five bags of lime from the flatbed. He slit them open and covered the horse to a depth of two inches. He shoveled dirt on top of her until sunset.

 

      Before dawn, Dusty rose and lit a candle in the bunkhouse, sending shadows dancing on the log walls where cobwebs netted the corners of the windows. He splashed cold water on his face from a chipped enamel basin, ran a comb through his hair and fingered his chin stubble. He needed a shave but couldn’t work up the necessary enthusiasm.

Breakfast consisted of biscuits, salt pork and beans, and he ate them slowly, savoring each bite. He wiped the dishes clean with a rag and set them aside on the countertop. 

      After dressing, Dusty fetched his frayed Stetson, adjusted his belt a notch and stepped sock-footed onto the creaky porch. Stretching, yawning, he took in the cheer of songbirds, the rising copper sun and scent of cool, damp earth.

 

      The old pickup backfired in town near the livery stable, and Dusty winced at the unwelcome attention. Tank almost empty, he headed toward the Standard Oil service station.

      A young woman appeared from the office and approached his side of the truck. She wore a man’s plaid shirt and cowboy boots, held her shoulders back and chin high, and had tied her honey hair back in a long pony-tail. Freckles glittered her nose and cheeks.

      “Morning, cowboy,” said the woman. “Fill ‘er up?”

      “Morning, Bren,” Dusty said, tipping his hat and checking his wallet. “Seems I’m a bit short today. Unexpected veterinary expenses. A dollar’s worth, please.”

      “Sarah?”

      “I’m afraid so.”

      “I heard she was sick. I’m so sorry.”

      “I know.”

      “You loved that horse.”

      “Even when she was ungrateful and stubborn,” Dusty said, winking.

      “You’re so full of shit,” Brenda said, uncapping his gas tank and inserting the pump nozzle. 

      Dusty leaned out the door’s window, rested his chin on his forearm. “Last night I had a funny dream. We were in a booth in a crowded coffee shop. Very busy, like old times. The jukebox played “San Antonio Rose” and the waitress neglected our refills. So you know what you did? You grew impatient and fetched the coffee pot from behind the counter yourself. On your way back you passed another couple and the man said ‘Now that’s what I call service!’ You kindly refilled their cups, and then ours.”

      “Doesn’t sound like me.”

      “Like hell.”

      Dusty studied her figure as she arched to clean his windshield, chest pressing against the glass in front of him. 

      “Not fair,” he said. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

      “You wish.”

      “I’ll bet you find me irresistible.”

      “Shut up and let me do my job.”

      Dusty tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “At the barber the other day I read an article saying there’re infinite realities all happening at once.”

      “Pop the hood, deep thinker. I’m checking your oil.”

      “I’m serious. There’re multiple me’s and you’s, and anything that can happen is happening. Like, I’ve got this old truck now, but somewhere else it’s a Cadillac. Here I’m broke, but in another universe I’m rolling in dough.”

      “I think I see where this is going. How’s your tire pressure?”

      “Makes you think anything’s possible.”

Brenda dropped the air hose, opened the passenger door and slid onto the bench seat beside Dusty. For a moment she said nothing, then she said: “Why do we keep at it?”

      “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “This little dance we do. I told you, I waited. I waited and it was hell, okay? Thinking you’d been killed on that damn beach in that damn war. What was I supposed to do, become a nun?”

      Dusty closed his eyes and drew in the lilac scent of her skin.

      Brenda slapped the seat. “You’re not even listening to me.”

      “I am. Really, I am.”

      “Then what did I just say?”

      “That you’re pissed off.”

      She looked at him sadly, reached out and squeezed his hand. 

      Dusty glanced down at the ring on her finger, then back at her face. “I’m not sure what your husband would think about that.”

      She withdrew her hand. “Just like you to ruin the moment.”

      “Come’s with the territory.”

      “All right, genius,” Brenda said, “I’ll tell you something you don’t know. They’re calling for a match down in Eldorado this afternoon. Seventy five dollars to the winner.”

      “Yeah? That’s short notice.”

      “Someone must’ve dropped out.”

      Well now,” Dusty said. “That sounds promising. Just think of the possibilities.”

      Brenda sat still, looking out the windshield at the sycamore trees and line of little shops with their makeshift awnings and signs and flags, and the cold gray street and telephone poles receding ever smaller toward Schoolhouse Road. Finally she said: “I do think of them, more than you’ll ever know.”

      “I know it,” Dusty said.

      She swung a leg up to face him and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. He looked at her intensely.

      “Endless possibilities,” Brenda said, more to herself. 

      The gas pump clicked off and all was silent. 

      She met his eyes. “Cowboy, this one’s on the house.”

 

      Dusty drove past acres of tall ripe silage corn, cob-silk glowing bright with dew in the morning sun. A rickety farmhouse and gambrel-roofed prairie barn came into view, surrounded by pecking Leghorn hens and a watchful rooster. A lily pond rimmed with cattails hosted several mallards and their ducklings. A whisker away a yellow and blue open-cockpit Stearman biplane fitted with crop-dusting pipes and tanks idled in the short grass. 

      Dusty ground his truck into gear and made his way down the gravel driveway toward a skinny, bow-legged fellow inspecting the plane’s tail-flaps like a detective at a crime scene.

      “Howdy, friend!” Dusty shouted, above the rumble of the plane’s engine. “Any chance I might bum a ride to Eldorado?”

      The pilot glanced up at the stranger suspiciously. But then he saw the tattoo on Dusty’s arm —Strength and Honor—and his face softened. “I was about to tell you to get lost, buddy. That I’ve no time for such foolishness. But fortunately for you the war’s over now and I’m more prone to charity.”

      Dusty smiled. “Glad my drunken night in Liège swayed you over.”

      The pilot donned his helmet and goggles. “You’re in luck. This bird still seats two. First we spray the fields, then I’ll oblige you.” He pointed to the seat in front. “Get a wiggle on. Mind the prop.”

      The roar of the radial engine was deafening and thrilling as they high-tailed it down the bumpy dirt path toward the foothills, soon released as if from a sling shot into the calm azure sky.

The biplane vaulted and banked, and Dusty nearly lost his gravy. But then they leveled out low over the corn rows, expelling the hiss and cloud of chemical spray. This process was repeated at intervals until the task was done. 

      The biplane rose to 1,500 feet and cruised for the good part of an hour. The graceful green landscape changed to open plains and barren, rolling hills. Dusty couldn’t help but feel pride for the power and agility of the little yellow aircraft, as if it were his kin. He patted its fuselage with brazen affection.

      “See there?” shouted the pilot, barely audible over the engine and wind. He pointed to a patchwork quilt of rooftops surrounded by farmland. “Up ahead—that’s Eldorado!”

      He circled the little town several times, studying the web of roads, paths, gullies and fields ripe with golden wheat. “Were barking at a knot!” he shouted above the noise. “No place to put her down!”

      “Tell you what,” hollered Dusty. “Take this buggy low and slow over the field…and I’ll jump!”

The pilot couldn’t believe his ears. “Crazy son of a bitch—you'll die!”

      “I survived D-Day, I can survive this!”

      “Well shit for breakfast! You listen here. I’ll circle back, throttle down and fly low enough to count the gophers. Hang onto the inter-struts and climb onto the wing facing backward. Look at me, not the ground. Make your way out far enough that you won’t hit the tail. When I say the word, you leap!”

      Dusty hit the ground hard, tucked and rolled like dice on a craps table and carved a rut through thirty feet of wheat before stopping. Black ravens and a pheasant scattered in all directions, never knowing what hit them.

      He gathered himself, stood unsteadily, and surveyed his torso, head, and limbs: a cracked lip and bump on his forehead. Minor cuts but no broken bones. Torn clothing at his knees, wrists, and elbows—otherwise fine as fettle.

High above, the pilot tipped the wings of his biplane in a cheerful parting salute. Dusty smiled broadly and waved his arms over his head, then began the trek toward town.

     

      “Don’t squat with your spurs on,” said the hefty ring proprietor, belly showing between his buttons at the ticket counter. A thick black mustache crowded the space between his nose and lip. He wore a plain jacket rolled up at the sleeves, puffed on his pipe, and squinted at Dusty over the round rims of his reading glasses.

      Dusty thumped his finger on the ring’s calendar. “You go ahead and put me down there. I’ll show up and I’ll beat him.”

Dusty’s opponent, he was told, was a nasty-tempered local boxer of some notoriety named Randy “Grinder” Collingford, who had a distinct reputation for leaving the faces of his rivals pulpy and unrecognizable, even to their dogs and mothers.

      “Alright, young fella,” said the bushy-browed proprietor. “We ain’t got no one else tonight so it’s your fight to lose.”

      “Seventy five if I win,” said Dusty.

      “That’s right,” chuckled the proprietor. “Good luck with that. Fight starts at 7:00. Be here at 6:30.”

      Dusty checked his watch: he had forty minutes to kill. “Where can a man get a drink and pee around here?”

 

      The bartender set a beer on the counter and Dusty gulped it down with a well-earned sense of urgency, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

      “Another?” asked the bartender.

      “Not tonight. I’m good.”

      “You’re drunk,” said a woman’s voice from the dark recesses of the bar. 

      “I ain't drunk,” came a man’s slurred reply.

      “Let’s just go home and talk,” the woman said.

      “You wanna talk? That's all you do. Never listen.”

      Dusty turned his head like an owl and spotted a bald-headed, husky fellow slouching on a stool, his back to him, butt-crack casually displayed. A fragile, pale-skinned young woman with the pink nose of a mouse stood before the man, facing Dusty, holding her purse with one arm while the man gripped the other. She struggled listlessly, but mostly seemed to tolerate his hold on her.

      “Please,” she said, “you’re hurting me.”

      “Shut your mouth,” said the bald-headed man.

      Dusty and the bartender exchanged glances.

      “Please let go. I want to leave.”

      The bald-headed man squeezed her arm harder, shook her firmly. “We leave when I say.”

      Then the woman looked up and past him, eyes widening.

      The bald-headed man felt a firm tap on his shoulder, rose and turned just as an immense blow slammed his jaw, hurling him backward over the barstool. He lay crumpled upon the floor like a crashed Stuka.

      The pale young woman stood open-mouthed, fingers splayed at her sides. “He’s...he's out cold!”  

      “You’re welcome,” said Dusty.

 

      The ringside crowd was raucous and partisan, but Dusty didn’t take offense, the money was the same. As he peeked through the curtain he glimpsed disheveled old landowners filling the ring with smoke from their Te-Amo cigars, farmers and ranchers looking for a diversion from their labors, town merchants, politicians, salesmen, women and children who came to witness one man slugging it out with another. Concession workers catered to them all, hawking popcorn and peanuts, hot dogs, candy, and soda pop.

Dusty returned to his change room, where an elderly Mexican cornerman with a broken nose and missing front teeth fitted and laced his gloves.

      “How long you been fighting, hijo?” asked the cornerman.

      “All my life,” said Dusty.

      “How old are you?”

      “Twenty-six, old man.”

      “Heck, just a kid. Want some advice?”

      “Get off this train? Save my money? Find a girl and settle down?”

      The cornerman frowned. “Okay, smart guy. You know everything.”

      Dusty placed a gloved hand on the cornerman’s shoulder and smiled. “I’ll take that to the bank.”

 

      Boos for the underdog accompanied Dusty into the arena, but he expected this and paid no mind. Grinder, caped and hooded, entered the ring to thunderous applause, cheers and whistles. Then the hood dropped, and Dusty was damned if he didn’t recognize the face of the bald man from the bar, bruised and swollen from the blow to his jaw. One look at Dusty and Grinder’s eyes widened with panic. 

      The bell sounded. Grinder’s breath came sharp through his nose, his chest rising too fast. His gloves hovered near his face, shifting, uncertain. He circled left, then right, feet light, never still. Across from him, Dusty moved slower, steadier, cutting off angles, closing space. His gloves were high, his shoulders loose. No wasted motion.

      A jab snapped out—quick, testing. Grinder jerked back, just out of reach, his heel skimming the canvas. The crowd stirred. He pushed forward a half-step, threw a jab of his own. It landed soft against Dusty’s forearm. No weight behind it.

Dusty smiled. He pressed in, hands tight, shoulders rolling, a hunter advancing. Another jab—this one not a feint. Grinder ducked, but his step back was too slow. The punch grazed his ear, heat flashing across his skin. He shuffled right, then left, keeping his distance. His back brushed the ropes.

      A murmur moved through the crowd. Grinder exhaled hard and stepped forward again, flicking another jab. It landed, but Dusty didn’t blink. A right hand swung in fast, aimed for the ribs. He twisted, absorbing it on his elbow.

Dusty grunted and reset. He knew. The crowd knew.

      Grinder swallowed, adjusted his gloves, and squared up. He couldn't run all night. He wouldn't. Not with all those eyes on him.

Dusty stepped in, gloves tight, eyes locked. Grinder saw it coming—tried to move, tried to get his feet under him—but his body was slow, his breath ragged.

      A left hook shot out. Grinder jerked away, but it was a trap. The right hand was already following, a short, brutal arc. It caught him clean on the jaw.

      His head snapped sideways. A flash of white behind his eyes. His knees buckled, and for a split second, he was weightless.

Then the canvas rushed up, unforgiving.

      He landed hard, limbs loose, one glove twitching as if reaching for something already lost. The overhead lights blurred into a single, spinning star. The roar of the crowd faded, distant, like waves pulling back from shore.

      A voice started counting. Somewhere far away.

      He didn’t hear the end of it.

 

      The crowd was silent while Grinder remained down for the count, and Dusty was declared the winner. But then a low murmur began to fill the room, quietly at first, then growing in intensity like the waking of a hibernating bear. A beer can landed in the ring, then a carton of popcorn, spraying its contents. A cigar butt followed, then handfuls of peanuts and crinkled candy wrappers. Some in the crowd stood and yelled. Others pounded the floor with their shoes. 

      The referee shot a glance at Dusty from where he knelt over Grinder, and motioned with his head to leave. A half-empty bottle wizzed past his ear. Dusty parted the ropes and hopped down from the ring onto the concrete floor, strewn with thrown debris.

In the change room the light was dim. Outside, the crowd still roared. The old cornerman sat on a wooden bench and untied Dusty’s gloves. “Wait some,” he said. “‘til they cool down.” Dusty considered this while he quickly dressed.

      The ring proprietor stepped in, breathing heavily, smoke trailing the pipe in his mouth. “Here’s your money,” he said, handing Dusty a small envelope. “You’re trouble. Time for you to get out of Dodge.”

      “Do I need to count it?” asked Dusty.

      “Suit yourself. It’s your neck.”

      “Use the back door, amigo,” the old cornerman said. “It’s safer.”

      Dusty nodded and rose, slipped the envelope into his pocket, and left through the back door into a dark, narrow alley. The air smelled of wet concrete, urine, and rotten food. The door locked shut behind him.

Up ahead, two men waited in the shadows by a crumbled wall, backlit by a streetlight. One was thin and sharp-featured. The other was broad and heavyset.

      The thin man said, “Now why’d you have to go and bust our home boy?”

      Dusty’s voice came low. “Nothing personal, fellas. I don’t want no trouble.”

      Before he could step back, a third man wielding a heavy board crept up from behind and smashed it down hard on the back of his head. The blow was quick and brutal, knocking Dusty to the puddled pavement.

      The three men fished through his jacket. The envelope and his wallet were pulled out and emptied. One of them kicked Dusty hard in the ribs. Another punched his face. Without another word they slipped like snakes into the night.

 

      Dusty woke on a straw mattress, his body heavy with hurt. He felt sure some ribs were broken. He couldn’t see well, as if a veil of cheese cloth covered his eyes. The room was dark and small. A wood stove burned in the corner, it’s light low and flickering and warm. The vague form of a gray dog slept beside the fire. 

      An old man sat at the foot of the bed. Next to him stood an old woman. She dabbed a damp rag on Dusty’s forehead. The back of his head throbbed and he tasted blood on his lips. He tried to sit up. The old woman shook her head and gently pressed him back onto the bed. 

      “Descansa,” said the old man.

Dusty closed his eyes, drifting. The last sounds he heard were the crackling stove and the soft murmur of Spanish from the old couple.

      Morning came. Dusty sat up slowly. His ribs ached and his head still pounded. He looked out the narrow window, where the land was flat and dry. The sun rose pale and biting, light shimmering through a hint of blue mist on dry fields and crooked fences. The welcoming smell of soup and woodsmoke mixed in the small room.

      The old woman came into the room, her long floral dress sweeping the chipped terra cotta tiles. She busied herself at the sink, occasionally wiping her hands on a soiled apron. Her feet were bare and her gray hair was pinned up above her ears. Dusty could see that she was Mexican. “Gracias,” he said, gently.

      She pointed to a plain wooden table in the corner. Dusty rose slowly, flinched, and slid into a chair. On the table were a few tortillas, scrambled eggs, and a mug of bitter coffee. The old cornerman shuffled in next, wearing shabby sandals and a frayed t-shirt that was only half tucked into his trousers. He nodded as he settled at the table, placed a leathery hand on Dusty’s shoulder and scrutinized his pulpy face. “¿Cómo te va esta mañana, chico?” he said.

      Dusty caught his drift. “I’ve been better.”

      “I found you in the alley. You’re very lucky.”

      Dusty picked at his eggs. “I’m grateful to you.”

      The old man squinted out the window while the dog approached, half blind, and was rewarded with a few pats on the head. “Chickens in the yard,” he said. “Up early.”

      They sipped their coffee, listening to the hush sounds of morning.

      The old woman joined them at the table, scraping the chair legs on the tiles. A long strand of gray hair came loose across her face. She cracked an egg into her coffee and beat it briskly with a fork. ¿Qué va a hacer ahora? ¿Debería ver a un médico?”

      “She wants to know if you are badly injured,” the old man said.

      “Sore, but I’ll live.”

      The old man rose, took a burning stick from the stove and held the flame close between them. “Look me in the eyes,” he said.

      Dusty did as he asked.

      “No dilatación, no concussion,” the old man said, returning the stick to the stove. “Good as new.”

      After the meal, Dusty reached into his jacket. It was empty. His winnings were gone.

      “They took my money,” he said.

      The old man waved his hand. “I will take you to the bus station. I will pay your ticket home.”

      Dusty frowned. “I’ll pay you back.”

      “Maybe,” said the old man. “You get home safe. That’s enough.”

 

      Later, they got into an old car that rattled along the dirt road. It was difficult to know what color the car had once been. The transmission ground while shifting and the cracked vinyl seats squeaked with each bump of the road. Dusty stared at the passing fields through the bug-stained window. “You were a fighter?”

      “Sí, long ago,” said the old man. 

      “Were you any good?”

      “No. No good.”

      “Then why did you do it?”

      “I was an angry young hombre.”

      Dusty pondered this for a moment. “What changed?”

      “You have met her.”

      “Your wife?”

      The old man shot him a toothless grin. “Fifty-seven years. But who’s counting.”

They rode on in silence until the bus station came into view.

 

      Dusty climbed aboard the bus. He sat at the back, picked up a worn magazine, and skimmed an article about the Nuremberg Trials. The bus rumbled on, its frame shaking over broken pavement. There were not many others riding with him. Outside, the fields slid by, desolate and raw under a clear sky. Dusty watched them pass, and he watched the rhythmic dip and rise of the telephone wires. Then he closed his eyes and slept.

      At the bus station in town Dusty got off. The place was small and quiet. A few pigeons cooed beside the benches along the walkway. He remembered his truck was parked a few miles away in the pilot’s yard. As he walked, he considered holding out his thumb, but was uncertain about what others might think of his bruised face, so he walked on.

      Dusty found his truck in the pilot’s yard where he left it. He climbed in and drove back to the ranch and his bunkhouse. The bunkhouse looked small and plain in the afternoon sun, but his face brightened when it came into view. A car he didn’t recognize was parked nearby.

      Inside, he set his few belongings on the table and sat for a moment in the silent darkness.

      “Hey, Dusty,” came a soft voice from the shadows.

      He sprang to his feet, muscles tense. “Damn, Brenda. You scared the hell out of me.”

      She approached him and carefully turned his bruised face in her hands. “Black eye, split lip, cuts, bruises. What the hell happened to you, cowboy?”

      Dusty looked at the floor. “Had a hard night.”

      “Oh that’s right—the fight. Did you lose?”

      He puffed his cheeks. “You could say that.”

      “It’s my fault. I never should have suggested it.”

      “Why are you here, Bren?”

      She stepped away from him, then turned back around. “Do I need a reason to visit and old friend?”

      “It’s not right you’re here in my cabin.”

      She reached for a framed photograph she had left on the table and handed it to him. “I found this and wanted you to have it.”

      The photo showed Brenda and Dusty, younger, sitting bareback on his horse, Sarah. Brenda hugged him from behind, smiling with eyes closed, her head against his back. Behind them was a mass of scrub brush and mesquite trees.

      “Whoa,” Dusty said. “When was this taken?”

      “Fall of ’42, I think. Just before you enlisted.”

      “Those were damn good days.”

      “The best,” Brenda said. She hesitated, then she said, “It’s no secret you still love me.”

      Dusty drew a breath, held it, and let it go. “Look, Bren, it’s getting late. He’ll be worried. He’ll wonder where you are.”

      She threw her arms around him.

      Dusty recoiled and Brenda’s eyes widened. 

      “Damn! My ribs.”

      “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”

      Dusty moved toward the door. “Really, you ought to go now.” 

      Brenda’s face sank and her eyes became glossy. Dusty pulled out a chair, sat her down at the table. He sat beside her and handed her his handkerchief. “What you’re doing here, this can’t happen. It can’t. You’re married and I’m beat and I’m broke.”

      “It doesn’t matter.”

      “Well, it should. Take a good look at this dump. Look at me. You have so much going for you. You can’t loose that.”

      “But what if I don’t love him?”

      Dusty rose and took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go outside.”

 

They approached the paddock where the horses were kept. The sun was low in the sky now, and the air warm and breezy. Thin wisps of clouds caught the light and wove a symphony of blue, purple, and orange, dotted with grace notes of dancing crows.

Along the split-rail fence a new horse stood apart from the others—a sleek mare with a coat of deep copper. Dusty leaned on the fence and watched her move. She walked slowly, graceful and sure.

      Soon, Emma and her husband Cliff approached from the ranch house, holding hands. Emma handed Dusty and Brenda a plate of oatmeal cookies, still warm from the oven.

      Cliff and Emma settled against the rail beside them, where Cliff’s clean suede vest smelled like new leather. His polished Lucchese boots were tucked neatly beneath pressed jeans. The slick black hair on the top of his head turned silver at his temples, and was combed straight back like Fred MacMurray, the movie star. Emma’s beaded Indian moccasins and dress the color of corn flour shimmered in the setting sun. A neckless of silver and turquoise stones hung about her neck. The four of them stood there quietly.

Dusty studied the mare as she trotted in the bronze sunlight. 

      Emma patted her husband on the back. “You wouldn’t know it, but this good man just returned from a successful livestock auction in Laredo.”

      “Congratulations, Cliff,” Dusty said.

      Cliff extended a hand. “Good to be back home, kid.”

      Dusty gestured toward the horses. “I noticed the new mare.”

      Cliff leaned on his elbows and faced the animals. “We haven’t named her yet. Nothing official, anyway. If you’re in agreement, we thought we might call her yours.”

      Dusty cracked a shy smile, bowed his head. Brenda drew close and clasped his arm. 

      “Well that’s fine,” he said. “That’s just fine with me.”