The wind burns my face as Willow and I bound over tree roots and the soft earth of the forest. The sun-dappled woodlands stretch invitingly before us. The majestic spread of leaves lies like a masterpiece, untouched by human or horse. Eagerly Willow gallops into it, causing the leaves to blow up like a bomb. The horse snorts delightedly. It is a crisp late-November morning in Lake Ariel, Pennsylvania. To our left glitters the frigid cobalt lake. The ducks, Jack and Sydney, patrol along the shoreline, making sure everything is under control. To the right is nothing, just the tangled mass of skeletal maples and dogwoods. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother’s worried voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn. Reluctantly and somewhat irritated now, I turn the horse back in the direction of Strawberry Grove. Willow is as deflated as I am as he heads back to the barn at a reluctant trot. The untamed wilderness turns into a well-worn path. Various footprints trample it. I think back to how many horses have galloped on these lands. Let’s see, there was Rosebud, Juno, Penelope, Pumpkin, Typhoon, and so many more. My parents have owned Strawberry Grove Farm since they were newlyweds of twenty. Now, nearly twenty-five years later, the strong stone walls of the barn and the old farmhouse on the hill are going strong. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother’s voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn My mother stands at the hayloft window with her binoculars in hand, worried lines creased on her weathered forehead. My black bangs fly up when I sigh in exasperation. Ever since the accident, my mother has become increasingly more of a worrier than she ever was. It is irritating sometimes, but I simply remember what Dad has drilled me to tell myself, “She’s worried because she loves you.” “Dylan, please stay closer to the house where I can keep an eye on you. Or better yet, just ride in the paddock. Why don’t you get back into showing?” I sigh yet again and shut my eyes. I fight the urge to yell. “Mom, Willow and I know the woods like the back of our hands. Or hooves in Willow’s case,” I told her, cracking a grin. But Mom’s face remains stern and a little bit sad. I can tell she’s thinking about Georgina. The sight of Georgina’s pale face lying in the leaves with her cloud of dark hair lying eerily around her still haunts my mother. “Dylan, please. You’re my only daughter left. I don’t want to lose you too,” Mom tells me in a choked voice, and hurries back toward the house. Sighing in frustration, I untack Willow and let him loose with his pasture buddies, Comet, Tiny, Warrior, and Persia. The eldest horses, Pumpkin and Rosebud, recognizing me, nicker softly and lumber forward. I feel a surge of affection for the sweet horses, who are in their high twenties and the oldest horses at Strawberry Grove. But their chestnut coats still gleam a healthy shine and their brown eyes shine. My parents had bought them as a pair when they were a shade over four. We are old friends. “Hey, guys,” I greet them, pulling some fresh carrots out of my coat pockets. Greedily but daintily they nibble each one, grateful for the attention. Suddenly the horses prick their ears and the sound of the rattling trailer comes up the road. Dad’s back with the new horse. * * * All three of us, along with the yellow-and-chocolate labs, Banana and Ryley, gather around the roomy box stall that is now occupied with a gorgeous gray mare, dappled white and complemented by a black, gray, and white mane. Her name is Baby Blue, nicknamed Baby, and she is my newfound interest in the horse breed. Baby munches calmly on the hay, casting her three awed onlookers curious glances once in a while, but otherwise the move hasn’t affected her. “Dad, she’s gorgeous,” I breathe for about the millionth time. Since the moment my father backed the finely conformed Arabian mare out of the trailer, I knew she was something special. But how to find out . . . The afternoon swiftly flows into a milky pink twilight, the winter sky dotted with cotton-like clouds. The last of the procrastinating geese fly overhead, frantically fleeing from the frigid cold to the tropical south. In the warmth and coziness of the huge stone farmhouse, I can hardly concentrate on the dullness of my math homework. Baby occupies my mind now. Dreamily I sketch a horse head on the margin of my paper. She has a finely dished face and intelligent wide-set eyes. My mother is overlooking. “What interesting math homework. It’s changed quite a lot since I was in sixth grade,” Mom observes dryly. “Oh, um . . . I was just getting a head start on my art project,” I reply weakly. Mom just raises her eyebrows and continues with the dishes. “Dylan, if this horse is going to inhabit your mind, I’ll have to find another home for her,” Dad tells me from his nest of newspaper on the couch. “Oh, no, Dad, she won’t,” I vow hastily, and quickly flee back to my math homework. * * * A week later, now in the early stages of December, I am delighted to find at least a foot of snow draped dramatically over the earth like a blanket. The horses, even more enthused, frolic merrily about the paddocks. The dogs nip at each other playfully as they roam the property. The fat barn cat, Callie, lounges lazily in the snow, enjoying the weather at a calmer level. School, to my delight, is cancelled today, so I take the opportunity to finally get on Baby’s back. The gray mare leans against the sturdy box stall door, relishing the fact that she could hang her
By Leslie Pearsall, Illustrated by Jane Westrick
