Page 31 of His Cowboy Heart

“Talk to me, you idiot. Unless you want me to freak the fuck out on Banana’s back in like ten seconds.”

I swore I heard Flynn chuckle. “What would you like to talk about?”

Deep down, I wanted to talk about what the hell had happened back at the motel, but that experience had provided me with enough humiliation to last me a lifetime.

“BJ… what kind of horse is he? He looks different from the others at the ranch.”

It was true. Flynn’s horse automatically stood out because of his gorgeous unique coloring which I could only describe as dark steel. The animal’s build was different too. He had a more refined, elegant build than most of the horses I’d seen on the ranch. I’d never been around horses before arriving in Wyoming, but it was obvious that the connection Flynn had with his mount was special. Unique.

It was like Flynn and BJ were silently communicating.

“He’s a Waler.”

“A Waler?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. What the hell kind of name was that for a breed of horse?

“They’re native to Australia. Have you ever heard of a brumby?”

“Oh yeah, that’s that horse from the movie where the guy jumps over the edge of a canyon or something and then runs down the mountainside at a forty-five-degree angle or something like that.”

“The Man From Snowy River,” Flynn supplied.

“Right. God, that guy was hot,” I mused.

“He was just okay,” Flynn responded.

Was that irritation in his voice?

“Anyway, Walers were bred to be military horses for both world wars. They probably have some brumby in them, but Walers have very specific bloodlines while brumbies are the wild horses you hear about in Australia and their bloodlines are a complete mystery. Many of the Walers that survived the wars were returned to Australia and set free to run with the brumbies. Walers are hard to find in the US, especially ones that are from Australian bloodlines.”

“How did you end up with him?” I asked.

“I grew up in this tiny town in West Virginia. Muddy Fork, population 312. One gas station, one convenience store that sold everything from bait and tackle to groceries to guns. The people who didn’t work in the mines were the ones who made the meth that most of the miners wasted all their money on.”

There’d been a slight shift in Flynn’s tone. He’d been excited and interested in explaining BJ’s breeding, but talking about home didn’t seem as pleasant for him.

“What, um, did your family do?” I awkwardly asked.

“A couple of my brothers were miners. One of my sisters worked at the convenience store and the rest helped run the family business.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Including the dead ones… thirteen,” Flynn said, his tone even and collected.

I didn’t even know how to respond to Flynn’s words, but fortunately I didn’t have to because he continued on his own.

“The numbers could be different now. I haven’t been back there for a long time.”

“So you’re not in touch with your family?”

Flynn shook his head. “Got out of there when I was sixteen. Mining and meth never appealed to me. I got lucky and met this guy, a real recluse who lived about a mile from me. Turned out he was an Australian veteran. World War II. He and his wife had immigrated to the US after his tour of duty ended. He brought his military horse with him, a Waler named Titan. After that, he began importing some Waler mares so he could breed purebred Walers. He’d raise and train them. Made a decent amount of money selling them not only because they were so rare, but also because of how he trained them. A lot of breeders, especially on ranches like the ones around here, break a young horse to ride by slapping a saddle on their back and tossing cowboys on them until the horses are too tired and broken to buck their rider off.”

“But the guy did it differently,” I offered.

“Yeah. Frank became a part of each foal’s life from the moment they were born. He began building the bond he needed from the minute that baby left its mama’s belly. By the time the colt or filly was old enough to put a saddle on it, it wasn’t a one-day process. It took however long it needed to take.”

“So you bought BJ from him?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that make him pretty old? Is it even safe to ride him like this?” I’d lost track of where we were on the trail, so it took me a moment to catch my bearings. “We’re going up to that ridge, right?” I asked as I pointed to the only conceivable spot where the trail could end. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

I was in the process of trying to figure out how to slide off the horse and not land on my ass when Flynn turned in the saddle until we were nearly face to face. “First off, BJ isn’t old, and once we reach the top, he’s going to be expecting an apology. Second, I didn’t buy BJ from Frank. It’s a long story but I would like to tell it to you when we reach the top.”

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