Photo by Sheila Swayze on Unsplash Under grey Wyoming skies we watched tadpoles pulse through the creek and jackrabbits cottontail the prairie-- until it was time for a ride. Saturdays on Risha’s ranch I got to ride Baldy, while Joe, my eight year old best friend, rode Spot. Baldy was the kindest horse, gentle, easy on the gallop while Spot, a frisky pinto, was often a little cranky. When it snowed, we wrapped ourselves in blankets, listened to the saddle leather creak, and watched the flakes melt on Baldy’s or Spot’s hot hide. I can’t remember why Joe and his dad Al named that brown stallion Baldy? No one left to ask now. Leukemia took Joe’s sister when she was twelve. Joe’s mother, Ruth, cut in half at the railroad crossing just off the ranch. Bib, their three-legged dog, always good for a tail-wag and a rump-scratch, gone long ago. Cancer found Al in the eighties and gobbled up Joe two years ago. I heard that Al rented a backhoe to dig the hole for Baldy. A hired man held his bridle while Al aimed and fired, then jerked the straps so Baldy would land in the right place.
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