Page 32 of Iron Unicorn

“She’s like a gray but she’s more… yellow?” The slightly darker mane and tail threw me off.

“She’s a smokey cream. That is what happens when you have a double dilution of cream over black.”

Huh. I’d heard of cream dilutions, but I’d never seen one quite like the mare. “She’s a beautiful horse.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” Waving me to follow, Olivia went to introduce herself to her sooty buckskin. The mare expressed interest in the princess, and within minutes, they cuddled together.

I couldn’t blame the horse for falling for the woman’s charms.

Aware the smokey cream had started life shy, I took time and care with my approach, waiting for the mare to notice me before introducing myself.

Rather than the shy animal I expected, she snagged my shirt in her teeth, yanked me forward, and went to work lipping at me. Within a minute, I wore horse slobber all over my face, she’d given my ear a nip, and she’d waged war with my helmet in an effort to chew on my hair.

Well. So much for a shy horse. I blamed the Texan king for the animal’s behavior. Only the Texan king would turn a shy little filly into a slobbering demoness. Spluttering, I wiped the horse drool off my face, securing a hold on her reins to spare myself from another round. “Well, that was different.”

Olivia kissed her new horse on the nose, untied the reins from the trailer, and laughed at me. “She already loves you, Terry.”

“That’s love?” At least the horse showed no signs of hating me, although I’d be kept on my toes if my new horse wanted to greet me with hefty doses of horse slobber.

“Absolutely.”

I followed the woman’s lead, gathered the reins, and led the mare a little closer to the stallion, who regarded me with equine interest. “According to the bow color, I seem to have two horses.”

“Yes.” Olivia swung into the saddle. “All three horses are from different lines so we can help with the preservation project. We can breed the horses in New York to help teach those sad RPS agents the glories of having foals under foot.”

As the New York RPS had a long way to go on the compassion front, I worried for the animals. In Montana and Texas, horses were a way of life. In New York, they were status symbols. Well, mostly.

I could think of one New York prince who loved having horses around. I made a mental note to see about manipulating the situation at the New York palace to entice Prince Ian to spend more time outside of his junkyard and apartment—and to dig deeper at the RPS agency continually failing the New York royal family.

Even the members who were not the king’s children.

When I considered the various problems I faced in New York, it came as no surprise to me whatsoever I’d gotten sick.

Much like the mare, the stallion lived for attention, opting against any of the more troublesome behaviors stallions tended to display. Then again, if the animal had come from the Texan king’s stable, the stallion remained a stallion through a mix of natural temperament, the king’s gentle hand, and many an hour of training. As horses responded well to affection, I made sure to convince both animals I wasn’t a threat, even kissing their noses.

Texan horses expected many kisses on their noses. Montana horses did as well.

“What are their names?”

“I refuse to repeat them. You will give those animals their dignity back.”

Right. King Patrick of Texas must have named them, and he must have challenged himself to concoct something even worse than his previous horses. Some of the names, like Princess Poppy, Chomper of Meadows, amused me.

The horse, last I’d heard, did her best to live up to her name.

“Come on, Olivia. You can’t just leave me hanging like that. If you don’t want to repeat them, they have to be good. And you have to admit that Princess Poppy, Chomper of Meadows is a great name.”

“It’s a spectacular name. Fine, fine. My mare is Would Rather Be Paying Taxes.”

Well, that was a unique name. “Dare I ask what heinous task His Royal Majesty was being forced to do?”

“Apparently, Taxes felt it would be a good idea to try to jump the paddock fence, got stuck, and required six hours of work to get out. Fortunately for her, Pat had already trained her to just be still if she became stuck, which spared her from a broken leg. She now has an issue with fences. She does not want to get anywhere near them. Not without good reason, but I adopted a horse with some trauma. I’ve been told I can handle it.”

Would Rather Be Paying Taxes bobbed her head before settling, chewing as horses tended to do when thinking something through.

In Montana, we’d had more than a few incidents of horses getting themselves stuck in the fences in unusual fashions. We also made an effort to teach our horses to patiently wait for rescue. Most of the time, it worked out, but sometimes it didn’t. “That will make fence rides fun.”

“Bite your tongue, Terry!”

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