Edge of Midnight by Charlene Weir Page B

she thought the little guy needed a companion so she got a second one. And one thing led to another. The idea about a guide horse came when one mini paired up with a blind horse she owned and led the blind one around. Why are you asking?”
    â€œJust checking that she’s not running some kind of con game.”
    He shook his head. “Not Ronny. She’s got a business going.”
    Because George thought most people were—deep down—good, Susan took that with a grain of skepticism and got directions to the Wells place. Letting Hazel know where she was headed, she went to the parking lot. The sun had bleached much of the blue from the sky, leaving it the color of dirty muslin. Heat from the pavement seeped up through her shoes.
    Windows lowered, air-conditioning on, she waited the required minute or two for cool air to kick in. Directions on the passenger seat, she headed east of town, took a county road for a mile and a half, turned right at the crossroads and continued another mile, past pasture land, horses in some, cows in others. All very bucolic. When she came to the gate with an arched sign, LEADING THE WAY , she turned in.
    After going up one hill and down another, she arrived at an old farmhouse recently painted white with deep blue shutters. The barn, red with white trim, sat behind. She pulled up near a corral where small horses walked around in a circle. A woman calling out commands noticed her, handed over a long whip to an assistant, and ducked under the rails. Susan climbed from the pickup. Heat slapped her in the face.
    â€œRonny Wells,” the woman said. “I figured you’d be out sooner or later.” Salt-and-pepper hair, tall and slender, wearing well-washed jeans and white T-shirt with sweat stains down the back and under the arms. “Let me show you around.”
    In the barn, a tiny horse stuck its nose over the stall door and whickered softly. Ronny opened the door and the horse trotted out, nuzzled Ronny’s pockets. Ronny produced a carrot.
    â€œThis is Ginger,” she said. “The one we took to the restaurant Tuesday evening. She’s the smartest one we’ve ever had.”
    Ronny rubbed Ginger’s neck. “This little girl is special, but she’s very sensitive. She’ll need to be with someone gentle, soft-spoken. If she gets yelled at, or anyone says a harsh word to her, her feelings get hurt. She gets depressed and withdraws in a sad huddle. Then she has to be played with, jollied back to a good mood. We’re very serious about fitting the animal with the handler. Personalities are taken into account, as well as how their walk fits.”
    Ronny gave the horse a final pat and took Susan around to the corral where an assistant was putting four small horses—not ponies—through their paces. “These four are beginners. They’re learning the basics.”
    Susan rested a hand on the railing and watched. “And these animals are safe to lead the blind?”
    â€œUnder all kinds of conditions. Horses are very good at it because they have a three-hundred-and-fifty-degree range of vision. They can see traffic in a flash, for instance, and they always look for the safest, most direct route to get from point A to point B. And they have fantastic memories.”
    â€œThey can be housebroken?” Susan’s voice was heavy with skepticism.
    Ronny smiled, apostle to the unbeliever. “If they need to go out, they tap a hoof by the door. They’re good for up to six hours.”
    Back in the sunshine, Ronny focused on the horses in the corral. One decided it had enough of this walking around getting nowhere and broke ranks. A command from the trainer brought it back in line.
    â€œYou worried a guide horse might spook and take its handler into traffic or let him fall in a lake?” Ronny said.
    Actually, Susan wasn’t. Mounted police have horses trained to be calm in all kinds of noisy, chaotic