She’d spent all morning cooking Kenny’s favorite dinner, ham and white beans and cornbread, hoping he’d feel well enough to eat. But at noon, she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. She stood by the couch and watched him sleeping.
Kenny awoke to the throaty sound of a rusted muffler outside and the clank of metal on a gate. He sat up slowly, craning his neck to see out the window. The throbbing engine died. His mom came in, a look of curiosity lifting her eyebrows. She shrugged an “I don’t know.”
They walked together out into the yard. Dill’s old pickup and a brick-colored trailer were parked on the far side of the yard. Two men stayed in the cab, their hats pulled down low, and Kenny saw Roddy Moyers move to the rear of the trailer. He swung open the gate and disappeared inside.
Kenny followed his mother out to the curb. He was aware of how they looked, standing in front of the small gray house under the tall cottonwoods. The leaves on the trees hung dusty with summer. Roddy backed Goldie out of the trailer, led her in a circle and stopped. The colt skidded down the ramp, uneasy without his mother. He danced at her flank, afraid to approach Roddy, and afraid to be too far away.
Confused, Lenna looked at her son. Dill Nethercott walked around the truck and opened the door on the passenger side. It took a long time for Earl to climb out, as if his body might not bend at all. When he was standing, he walked up to Roddy and took the halter rope. With some effort, he led the mare to Kenny, the colt in his small halter following behind.
“My girl,” he said, “asked me to give you the mare.” He handed the rope to Kenny and, without seeming to move, snapped a lead rope on the colt. “And the horse colt, too.”
Earl nodded at him and at his mother and made his way back to the truck. He climbed in. Dill shut the door like a chauffeur and got back in behind the wheel. He looked to see if Roddy was coming, but Roddy signaled no.
The colt shone like oiled wood, deep red in the sunlight, his cream-colored deer fawn tail twitching. He lipped at Kenny’s hand. Roddy stepped up to hold Goldie.
Kenny laid both hands on the colt and slid his palms along its quivering neck. He let the small horse nip at his shoulder, and mouth along the length of his shirtsleeve.
They stood together in front of the gray house, Roddy, the boy, and his mother. They watched the truck and trailer rattle down the street, turn toward town, and disappear.
Acknowledgments
I am very grateful to all those who generously gave me advice and encouragement during the writing of this book, especially Rod Kessler, Kristen Zethren, the Chambers families, Stephen Bellon, Mickie Morgan and Barbara Herman, Jeri Weiss, Bruce Macadam, Gaetha Pace, and the students I taught at Oakwood School. For help with all things rodeo, I am indebted to Dotty Bowen, George Quarta, and the inimitable Ken Chambers, who invited me along to rodeos of all kinds. I am very grateful to and have the deepest regard for my agent, Denise Shannon, and my editor at Little, Brown and Company, Pat Strachan. I also want to thank Pamela Marshall, the copyeditor from Heaven. Finally, I continue to be grateful to the Centrum Foundation and the Idaho Commission on the Arts.
About the Author
Christina Adam’s short fiction has appeared in Crazy Horse, Prairie Schooner, The Atlantic Monthly, and many other periodicals, as well as in Circle of Women: An Anthology of Contemporary Western Women Writers. Her first book, Any Small Thing Can Save You, a collection of stories, was published in 2001. Before her death in the summer of 2003, Christina Adam divided her time between Venice, California, and a ranch in Idaho. Love and Country is her second book.
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