eating contentedly, head down, cropping at the grass and chewing hard. “Listen!” she told Matt.
They heard water trickling through the meadow, leaves rustling.
“What am I supposed to hear?” he demanded.
“Is Lucky struggling for breath?” Kirstie asked, her eyes sparkling, still listening hard as if she couldn’t believe the evidence of her own ears.
Matt stared at the smooth motion of Lucky’s ribcage, in and out without the shuddering double-heave of aborted breath. He shook his head.
“So it worked!”
Thanks to Zak Stone, whatever he did and however he did it, Lucky could breathe easy.
“A horse can sometimes battle against a virus and pull through,” Matt the college-trained skeptic pointed out. “Equine influenza is serious but isn’t fatal in 100 percent of cases, especially if the horse is young and healthy.”
It was Friday evening: twelve hours since Thunder Rock. Zak had stayed away all day, leaving the cabin to Matt and Kirstie, apparently confident that Lucky’s healing had taken effect. The sun had traveled across a blue sky unbroken by clouds, blazing down from its midday height and only now cooling as the shadows lengthened and it sank in the west. Lucky had fed and drunk without a break, making up for the starving, fever-ridden days just past.
At dusk Kirstie had fetched a grooming kit from the trailer, and started work on cleaning Lucky up. She’d brushed the dust out of his coat, raising clouds of the stuff after a week of neglect. She’d been picking dirt out of his hooves when Matt had come along and started into his “There’s gotta be a logical explanation” routine.
“The trachea and lungs can recover once the body’s natural healing mechanisms kick in to defeat the infection,” he explained, cool and reasonable. “Fever constricts the blood vessels, leading to lack of oxygen in the lungs, but, as long as the horse rests, the damage is reversed as soon as his temperature’s back to normal.”
“Sure, Matt.” Kirstie hooked a stone out of a back hoof, her hair swinging forward across her face. “And that happens in a second, like this?” She snapped her fingers and shot him a frowning glance.
He hesitated then came back. “It could happen!”
“And why does it have to be scientific?” she demanded, hooking out more packed dirt. “Why can’t it be a spiritual thing?”
Struggling for an answer, frowning and about to resort to more college stuff, he suddenly changed his mind. “Because I wasn’t there,” he confessed quietly and honestly. “What I didn’t see is real hard for me to believe.”
“And I was, and I do,” she replied. “We were, weren’t we, Lucky? We believe.”
Zak came back at nightfall on his big black-and-white pinto. He rode bareback, with a head collar and rope, no bit or bridle. There was no mention of Thunder Rock.
Supper was bacon, eggs, and hash browns, cooked on his wood stove. The two men drank homemade beer, talked about baseball and cars, discussed the best route for Kirstie, Matt, and Lucky to take through Wyoming, missing the busy tourist roads of Yellowstone Park.
At ten, when Kirstie slipped away with a handful of oats for Lucky, she found that Zak had followed her to the meadow.
“How is he?” he asked, looming up in the darkness, his footsteps making no noise.
“Good!” She felt Lucky’s soft mouth take the food from her hand. Then his rough tongue licked between her fingers. “He’s eating plenty and the swellings are down.”
“Hmm.” Zak’s nod was brief but satisfied. “Your brother, Matt …” he began.
“Take no notice!” Kirstie jumped in. “He doesn’t mean anything.” She wanted to say sorry. Though Matt hadn’t exactly behaved badly over supper, he’d sure been acting as if Thunder Rock had never happened.
“It’s cool,” Zak shrugged and spoke without regret. “Your brother is a twenty-first-century man. He has different gods. I belong in the nineteenth century, or
They heard water trickling through the meadow, leaves rustling.
“What am I supposed to hear?” he demanded.
“Is Lucky struggling for breath?” Kirstie asked, her eyes sparkling, still listening hard as if she couldn’t believe the evidence of her own ears.
Matt stared at the smooth motion of Lucky’s ribcage, in and out without the shuddering double-heave of aborted breath. He shook his head.
“So it worked!”
Thanks to Zak Stone, whatever he did and however he did it, Lucky could breathe easy.
“A horse can sometimes battle against a virus and pull through,” Matt the college-trained skeptic pointed out. “Equine influenza is serious but isn’t fatal in 100 percent of cases, especially if the horse is young and healthy.”
It was Friday evening: twelve hours since Thunder Rock. Zak had stayed away all day, leaving the cabin to Matt and Kirstie, apparently confident that Lucky’s healing had taken effect. The sun had traveled across a blue sky unbroken by clouds, blazing down from its midday height and only now cooling as the shadows lengthened and it sank in the west. Lucky had fed and drunk without a break, making up for the starving, fever-ridden days just past.
At dusk Kirstie had fetched a grooming kit from the trailer, and started work on cleaning Lucky up. She’d brushed the dust out of his coat, raising clouds of the stuff after a week of neglect. She’d been picking dirt out of his hooves when Matt had come along and started into his “There’s gotta be a logical explanation” routine.
“The trachea and lungs can recover once the body’s natural healing mechanisms kick in to defeat the infection,” he explained, cool and reasonable. “Fever constricts the blood vessels, leading to lack of oxygen in the lungs, but, as long as the horse rests, the damage is reversed as soon as his temperature’s back to normal.”
“Sure, Matt.” Kirstie hooked a stone out of a back hoof, her hair swinging forward across her face. “And that happens in a second, like this?” She snapped her fingers and shot him a frowning glance.
He hesitated then came back. “It could happen!”
“And why does it have to be scientific?” she demanded, hooking out more packed dirt. “Why can’t it be a spiritual thing?”
Struggling for an answer, frowning and about to resort to more college stuff, he suddenly changed his mind. “Because I wasn’t there,” he confessed quietly and honestly. “What I didn’t see is real hard for me to believe.”
“And I was, and I do,” she replied. “We were, weren’t we, Lucky? We believe.”
Zak came back at nightfall on his big black-and-white pinto. He rode bareback, with a head collar and rope, no bit or bridle. There was no mention of Thunder Rock.
Supper was bacon, eggs, and hash browns, cooked on his wood stove. The two men drank homemade beer, talked about baseball and cars, discussed the best route for Kirstie, Matt, and Lucky to take through Wyoming, missing the busy tourist roads of Yellowstone Park.
At ten, when Kirstie slipped away with a handful of oats for Lucky, she found that Zak had followed her to the meadow.
“How is he?” he asked, looming up in the darkness, his footsteps making no noise.
“Good!” She felt Lucky’s soft mouth take the food from her hand. Then his rough tongue licked between her fingers. “He’s eating plenty and the swellings are down.”
“Hmm.” Zak’s nod was brief but satisfied. “Your brother, Matt …” he began.
“Take no notice!” Kirstie jumped in. “He doesn’t mean anything.” She wanted to say sorry. Though Matt hadn’t exactly behaved badly over supper, he’d sure been acting as if Thunder Rock had never happened.
“It’s cool,” Zak shrugged and spoke without regret. “Your brother is a twenty-first-century man. He has different gods. I belong in the nineteenth century, or
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