Drexlers’ rambling old house had long been a second home for Mary. As a girl she’d sometimes pretended it was her first home. And then she’d thought about Mother and mentally flagellated herself. Even with those days long gone, she entered the mudroom through the squeaky screen door and boxed those old, familiar feelings around. Ah, yes, the door—oh, damn, it isn’t mine. She was greeted by a sweet yellow dog, ignored by an old calico cat.
“Come on in,” called a beloved voice.
“It’s me again,” Mary called back as she signaled the dog to stay and the man to come.
“In the office, you again.”
Mary led the way through sunny kitchen, comfy living room and dim foyer to present herself in the doorway to Sally’s office-by-day, bedroom-by-night. She took a parade rest stance.
“Okay, girlfriend, just what are the rules for this contest you’ve got going here?”
Sally spun her ergonomically correct chair away from the computer desk and grinned. “I see you two found each other.”
“Surprise, surprise. You said I wasn’t qualified to enter, but then you told…” Mary stepped aside, ceding the doorway to her companion.
“Logan,” Sally prompted, “that he couldn’t have a horse because he’s on the Tribal Council, and they lease us a lot of land for which we are enormously grateful. And I told him you’re somebody who’s interested in the challenge and might be able to get a horse, but you’d need to work with somebody who knows horses.” Sally bounced her eyebeams between visiting faces. “Perfect Jack Sprat kind of a deal, don’t you think?”
“I have to be in Fort Hood in thirty days.”
“So, you’d be in Texas. It’s not like you’d be on the moon. Not quite. I’ve got applications from as far away as…” Sally snatched a paper from one of three wire baskets—red, gray and green—on the corner of her desk. She adjusted her glasses and focused on the top of the page. “Here’s one from New York. Now that’s a different world. She says she lives on a reservation. Are there real Indians in New York?”
“All kinds,” Logan said.
“Good. I want all kinds of distribution. Geographical, cultural, economic, the whole barbecued enchilada. Nothing like wild horses to drag in all kinds.” Sally shot Mary a suggestive look. “Maybe they can drag you back from Texas on weekends.”
“That wouldn’t make a lot of sense.” She had to hear herself say the sensible thing. One crazy indulgence—possible indulgence—was one more than her limit. “But right now.. just so we’re clear…”
“Like the woman said,” Logan put in. “About those rules.”
“There are rules, and then there are…considerations.” Sally tossed the New York application aside. “I’m working with Max Becker out of the Bureau of Land Management’s Wyoming office. He’s the wild horse specialist there, and he helped me get the competition approved. We worked together on the application you both filled out. We don’t want anyone crying foul and giving wild horse and burro protection a black eye. Any more budget cuts and the program will go from a shoestring to a single-thread operation.”
“If we don’t qualify, we don’t qualify,” Mary said.
“Separately you don’t qualify. But I don’t have a problem with the entrant getting help from an experienced trainer.” Sally turned her eyeball-to-eyeball considerations from Mary to Logan. “And there’s no reason the trainer can’t be on the Tribal Council.”
“Are you making this stuff up as you go along?” Logan sounded more bemused than troubled.
“When we get into the gray areas I’m making most of the calls. Max is pretty busy. Plus…” Sally gestured toward the baskets. “…qualified applications aren’t exactly flooding in. See, these are my ‘In’ boxes.”
They were labeled “Ifs,” “Ands” and “Buts.”
“Which ones have been rejected?” Mary asked.
“Those.” Sally pointed to a metal trash can. “What does the army call ‘File Thirteen'?”
“They don’t even get a rejection letter?”
“Annie’s handling that end of it. She writes such nice letters, we even get donations back from some of the rejects.”
“I haven’t gotten any letter,” Mary told Logan. “Have you?”
He shook his head. “Must be in the ‘But’ pile.”
“You’re both ‘Ifs.‘ Together you could move from gray to green.” The look in Sally’s eyes went from that of woman on top to woman in love. Mary and Logan turned to see the cause.
Hank Night Horse stood in the doorway ready with a handshake for each. Mary’s came with a cowboy salute—touch of a finger to the brim of the hat—and Logan got a slap on his shoulder. “How’s it goin',
Track Man?”
“Have you figured this woman out yet?” Logan asked jovially. “Which box are you in?”
Hank and Sally exchanged affectionate glances.
“No conflict of interest there,” Logan said to Mary. “No ‘ifs', ‘ands’ or ‘buts’ about it.” Mary stepped to one side.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not competing. I’ve got my hands full right now.” And to prove it Hank crossed the room, planted himself on the window seat behind his woman and rested his big hands on her slight shoulders. “But this guy’s the best there is, Sally. He’ll have his horse telling jokes while you clear the ring for the next contestant.”
“I don’t do stunts,” Logan said. “A horse is a horse.”
“Of course, of course!” Sally chimed in. Giddiness looked good on her. “And I want you to do what you do so well. I want this competition to generate some wonderful stories. Like the one about the Lakota horseman and the warrior woman. That’s going straight to Horse Lover’s Journal”
“Warrior woman,” Mary echoed with a chuckle. “I guess that’s better than ‘dog soldier.'”
“Why?” Hank asked. “Dog soldiers were the Cheyenne’s best warriors. Just lately they started up again. My sister got married to one, up in Montana. Anybody calls you a dog soldier, you take it as a compliment.”
“I do. I’m good at my job, too, and I prefer ‘dog soldier’ to ‘dogface’ but canine specialist has a better ring to it.”
“You don’t wanna be called a whisperer?” Logan asked. “Everybody’s whispering these days.”
“Got that, cowboy?” Sally slid Hank a playful smile. “You whisper, I purr.”
“I know.”
“Sweet,” Logan teased. “Rumor
