A Gentle Rain by Deborah F. Smith

to land atop the mare's silver-white mane, just above her withers. She halted, rolled her eyes, and twisted her head to gaze at him.
    Mr. Darcy loved horses. He bowed low and rubbed his blue head on her neck. She sniffed him. He nibbled her muzzle with his curving black beak. Her eyes calmed and we walked some more, with me whispering to her. She bent her scarred head near me and flicked her ears curiously. I halted and turned to look at my hosts. "She's calm, now. Where do you stable her?"
    Mac, Lily and assorted others-a group of ranch hands with one common trait being wide eyes-gazed at me with their mouths open. Ben, less easily impressed, tilted his head, sunk his hands into the pockets of his handsome, faded jeans-and studied me with suspicion, as if I were a new species ofwoman, armed with foreign languages and a horse-loving macaw.
    "There's a holding pen by the main barn," he drawled. "Follow me."
    After the gray mare was happily ensconced in a small paddock with a tub of cool water and some fresh hay to nibble, I hung her nylon lead on a post, dusted my hands on my khaki hiking shorts, and pivoted to find my audience waiting.
    "Perhaps formal introductions are in order. I'm Karen Johnson. Traveling artist and harp player. I'm visiting this part of Florida to paint pictures of the landscapes, people and animals."
    Silence. I heard nothing but crickets and tree frogs for a few seconds. "You talk like Katherine Hepburn," the giant of the group said. I would learn his name later. Bigfoot.
    "Who?" a fellow ranch hand asked. I later identified him as Roy Rogers. He spoke through his spread fingers.
    "She has a harp," Lily announced. "Like angels play. And a pretty knife. Look." Lily pointed at the Brazilian gaucho knife sheathed on my chest. "She stabbed the Pollo brothers. Sheriff Arnold had to take them to the clinic to get sewn up on the way to jail."
    This news earned me more craned heads and curious scrutiny. "Mi Dios!" a mustachioed cowboy exclaimed.
    I smiled at him. "Su acento suena cubano. Si?"
    He gaped at me, then looked at the others. "She can tell I came from Cuba! She reads minds!"
    Ben held up his hands. "Awright, awright. Karen, this is Cheech and Bigfoot, and Possum, and Roy and Dale, and you know Mac and Lily, and in a minute or two you'll get to meet Miriam and Lula and my baby brother. And I'm Ben, yeah. Got all that? There'll be a quiz, later."
    "Charmed," I said.
    Silence. Some looked confused. Ben turned to them. "That means she's pleased to meet you."
    People nodded. Ah hah.
    "Benji!" a voice called. "I want to meet the girl who found our horse!"
    Ben pivoted toward that voice. His tired, stern face instantly softened. I followed his lead, and my breath caught in my throat. A somewhat gaudy older woman, charm bracelets jangling on leathery arms, pushed a wheelchair toward us. In that chair sat a chubby, sweetly smiling young man with Ben's black hair but with features that clearly indicated Down Syndrome .
    His coloring was unhealthy and he inhaled deeply through the oxygen cannula at his nose. But his smile was magnificent.
    "Karen, this is my brother, Joey," Ben said. "And this is Miriam."
    "The mermaid," Miriam wisecracked around a chewed toothpick, then shook my hand.
    I smiled. "I sat upon a promontory and heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath that the rude sea grew civil at her song-"
    Miriam yipped. "And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, to hear the sea-maid's music!" She put a hand to her heart. I nodded. She and I were simpatico. She glared at the stunned looks around us. "It's Shakespeare, you hicks. Us mermaids know these things."
    Joey Thocco looked up at me with unfettered fascination. "You're a mermaid and a horse tamer?"
    I squatted in front of him. "Well, I certainly can't claim to be all that. Hello. I understand from Lily that you're part-owner of this lovely gray mare."
    "Yeah! Me and Mac and Lily, and everybody else, we put