Horse Lover by H. Alan Day

horses splashed across the Little White River and headed up the hill. We stopped on the crest and took in the panorama. Looking south, behind me, was a classic Sand Hills scene. I half expected to see an Indian camp nestled in one of the bends of the Little White with buffalo roaming beyond. Maybe Lewis and Clark had sent a scouting party that stood on this very same hill, curious to encounter the encampment. To the northwest, a meadow stretched before us. A long building stood at its far end.
    “That’s the old sheep barn,” explained John. “Before my time, the ranch had a herd of three thousand sheep. They wintered on this meadow.” Well, how about that, the ranch came with a sheep barn. We rode up to take a closer look.
    It was a dilapidated structure with sagging corners and weathered wood the color of the clouds. But long, probably as long as a football field. We dismounted and walked inside. A swallow swooped in front of me, stirring the mildewed air. Light filtered through cracks in the rafters and spotlighted weeds in the dirt floor. The gates on the little pens extending the length of the building stood at odd angles.
    John said, “I’ve always been tempted to burn this place down. Not sure what else to do with it.”
    The place had the feel of Arizona ghost towns I’ve visited, those once-bustling mining hubs now limp with decay and trafficked by rattlesnakes and tumbleweeds. I could almost hear the ghosts of sheepherders telling their stories of gathering three thousand ewes in here before the blizzard hit. I examined the wooden beams above and around me. Now here was fine, seasoned wood, protected from the piercing summer sun and winter snow and ice.
    “Wonder if we could use this wood to build up the corrals back at headquarters,” I said.
    “Not a bad idea,” said John. “But who are you going to get to do the work?” Good question. Available workers in this county seemed scarcer than jobs.
    “Tell you what. You get the horse, and I’ll scrounge up some labor.”
    On the way back to headquarters, I mentally reviewed pending projects. Tear down the sheep barn. Rebuild the road. Change pasture fences. Drill five new wells. Paint the barn. Build up the corrals strong enough to hold wild horses. Fertilize the meadows. All good ranching stuff, all stuff that could get done. So why, while riding across this open country, the wind now at my back, was I sinking into a light-gray funk? A few raindrops hit my hands. Today made a week of overcast skies. Maybe I was sun deprived. Or maybe I was Sue deprived. Or horse deprived. I craved all three—sun, Sue, and my own goddamn horse. If I were riding Aunt Jemima, I’d discuss it with her and she would advise me. Alan, she’d say, just tend to the task at hand and the rest will follow. No matter what the situation, she had a way of setting things right with the world. I set my mind on her for the rest of the ride home.
    Aunt Jemima had been a handful to train. As a young colt, this little grulla-colored mare didn’t like what we were trying to teach her and was slow to offer her trust. Her older sister Tequila, a big, strong, willing cow horse, held a special spot in my string of horses at Lazy B. I was willing to put up with Aunt Jemima’s crankiness because of how much I enjoyed riding her sister. When Jemima got big enough to ride, I assigned her to Rodney, one of the ranch hands, to break. He had a way with young horses. But he had one fault: he liked to ride bucking horses. With her peppery temper, Aunt Jemima would buck if challenged, and Rodney seemed to be constantly challenging her.
    2. Aunt Jemima
    I’d watch the two of them go at it in the corral. “Why do you try to make that mare buck?” I’d say to Rodney. “You’re supposed to be breaking her to be gentle. If you keep making her buck, she’ll learn how to buck harder and harder and then she won’t be good for anything.”
    “Aw, I’m just having fun with her. She can’t buck hard