Word Count: 12,004
Summary of Events:
Ian finished teaching the Advanced students he'd been assigned to and turned his mare out to pasture for the night before heading to tend to another horse who'd gotten a bad scrape recently; before he could get to tending the horse, however, he noticed a woman who didn't look like she had ever been to the riding school before . . .
Excerpt of the Day:
She was looking around like she was rather lost and puzzled, which led Ian to believe she was a parent looking for her children who’d arrived too early for the end of the camp.
He was only at the far side of the Northwest stables from where she was standing close to the Southeast stables when she noticed him and hurried over, looking concerned.
“May I help you?” Ian asked politely, even though he didn’t want to, seeing how he’d been around people all day already.
“Yes, I’m looking for my children, my parents brought them here for the summer camp,” she replied.
“The camp isn’t finished yet,” Ian replied.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, how long is it yet?”
“About a half an hour,” Ian replied.
“Oh,” she said.
Ian waited for her to turn and head back to her car to wait, but she didn’t move, so he started toward the door of the Northwest stables.
“Are you the owner?” she asked.
“No,” Ian replied, stopping and turning to look at her. “I’m not.”
“Are you experienced with horses?” she asked, starting after him.
“Yes,” Ian replied, continuing into the stables.
“How long have you ridden?” she asked.
“Almost a quarter century,” Ian replied.
“Oh,” she said, sounding impressed.
Ian opened one of the stalls and stepped inside. He was glad when the woman stayed outside. These were roomy stalls, but two humans and a horse in one still made quarters feel crowded at the best of times.
“Is this a horse?” she asked.
He turned and looked at her, inclined to make a sarcastic quip, but based on her expression he elected not to.
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, it is.”
“Oh,” she said. “What kind of a horse is it?”
“It is of the Shagya Arabian breed,” Ian replied.
“So it’s from the Middle East,” she said. “Then it doesn’t understand English, does it?”
“Actually no, the Shagya Arabian originated in the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the early eighteen hundreds,” Ian replied. “And this horse was born in New Zealand.”
“Oh,” she said. “How old is this horse?”
“Ten,” Ian replied, squatting down beside the bandaged leg.
“It looks awfully large to be ten,” she said.
“Horses reach their full adult size by the age of two, and are considered mature in all respects at the age of four,” Ian replied, unwinding the bandage gently. “When a horse reaches its teenage years it’s considered about middle aged, and the late teens make it a senior. Most horses are fortunate to live thirty years.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised.
Ian touched the skin around the scab lightly. It wasn’t warm, which was good, because warmth meant an infection. The scab still looked rough, so it would do well to be covered still.
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