Page 2 of Cowboy Don't Go

Shock skittered across her skin. He knew her name? She peered up at him as he moved, for the first time, to where she could get a half-shadowed look at him. Definitely familiar. Dark hair, dark hat, etched features, handsome in a rough and tumble way. He was cowboy, through and through, all bone and muscle and sun-burnished skin, but she couldn’t place him. Maybe all those cowboys just blended together.

“If you three are done discussing the merits of me and my filly,” Shay said, “kindly bug off.”

That earned her an amused half smile from the stranger and a touch to the brim of his hat. The auctioneer and his cohort laughed.

Shay ground her teeth together, allowing the filly a good sniff of her palm before touching her neck. Fear caused the filly’s flank to quiver, and the animal snorted out a loud breath. All these horses were haltered—some maybe for the first time in their lives and dragging a lead rope that could get easily tangled up with the legs of other horses.

Shay took hold of the lead and spoke softly to the filly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Promise.”

The filly’s ears pitched forward for the first time. A good sign she was paying attention to more than just her own fear.

“Your funeral, lady,” the auctioneer muttered from above, before moving off with the older cowboy. Only the third man remained, watching her.

“Ryan, get the gate,” she said softly.

Her son obliged, cautiously opening the steel gate and allowing her to lead the nervous horse out without so much as a whinny.

“That’s right. Good girl. You can do it.” She rested her hand on the filly’s quivering neck which was damp with nervous sweat. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Generally, horses in these pens were terrorized into compliance, with men using long-handled flags, waving and slapping at them to direct them toward a chute, thus avoiding human contact inside the pens. As if they weren’t already terrorized enough.

For many, this auction was the last stop. This filly was likely headed to the kill pen next for bad behavior toward those same men who terrorized her. One could hardly blame her for biting. Or kicking. But Shay had a feeling about this one. She and Ryan had watched the pen live feeds for the last week and something about this filly just spoke to them. She needed a chance. Horses weren’t bad, intrinsically. They were reactionary creatures. Fight or flight creatures. Herd animals. And these horses had all been brutally separated from their family and from everything they’d known. Treated like the soulless numbers they wore attached to their flanks. They all deserved better than this from humans.

Outside the pen, Shay inspected the horse and found her thin, but sound. The cut on her leg would take time to heal, but it looked mostly superficial. She’d have a vet do a thorough inspection at the ranch.

She smiled up at Ryan. “We’re taking her,” she told him.

Ryan grinned back. He stroked the filly’s nose. That the horse allowed his touch was a good sign. “We gotta win the bid on her first. But she’s a pretty one, huh?”

“We will win.” She’d brought along plenty of cash to win the bid in the auction. Horses like her rarely fetched more than four to five hundred dollars.

This wouldn’t be Ryan’s first encounter with an untouched horse as he had watched her desensitize a few of the wild mustangs that pastured on their ranch for a couple of years now. But he was dead set on entering the Youth Horse Encounter contest this year, sponsored by the 4-H of Marietta. The kids had eighty days to gentle and train an untouched horse to be eligible to win a $500 prize at Marietta’s annual autumn festival in late October. The contest was right up his alley despite his new passion for football. Horses had long been his fascination, and Shay had watched him sit for hours watching them in the Hard Eight’s pastures, learning their habits and moods. Maybe the love of these gentle, magnificent creatures was genetic. At least, she hoped so.

A few minutes later, the filly’s number was called by the auctioneer. One of the handlers came to snatch the horse away from her to take her to the ring. Shay’s heart sank as the man rough handled her into the ring.

“Number twelve-oh-nine is a spicy two-and-a-half-year-old Appaloosa filly,” the auctioneer called. “Unhandled. The bidding opens at two hundred.”

Shay raised her bidding paddle, hoping the price would stay low. But the bid rose to two-fifty. Again, she raised her paddle, searching the crowd for the bidder going up against her. Three hundred. She bid again.

Four, countered the other bidder. This time she caught sight of him. It was the old cowboy who’d stood beside the auctioneer on the catwalk. Oh, no. She couldn’t lose that filly to him. He was just bidding to spite her.

Four seventy-five, Shay countered, hoping to put an end to it.

Five-fifty. The man grinned at her past the toothpick between his lips.

Six was her limit. She couldn’t go higher. She raised her paddle.

“Six, we have six hundred for the Appaloosa filly, lot number twelve-oh-nine. Do I hear six-fifty?”

No. Don’t do it.

“Seven,” the cowboy answered, looking very pleased with himself.

Ryan sent her a desperate look. “Mom—”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “I can’t. That’s too high.”

“But . . . Mom!”

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