Part 4
Miller answered, and Ruth described what she could see. He stayed on the line while she watched Bess, telling her when to wait and when he wanted another description. The mare groaned and shifted. Outside, sleet rattled against the roof. Ruth had spent months expecting a foal; now she could think only about getting Bess through the next few minutes.
When the colt began to emerge, Miller talked Ruth through giving Bess the small amount of help she needed. The foal arrived wet and long-legged. Ruth cleared the membrane from his face and made sure he was breathing. Then she sat back and let Bess turn to him. His dam’s strong hindquarters were already apparent, while the fine length of his legs had come from Ruin. A white star marked his forehead. Within half an hour he was attempting to stand, folding, trying again, and at last holding himself upright against Bess’s side.
Ruth called Miller back with the news. When she stepped into the aisle, she found Ruin at the fence of the adjoining paddock, his ears fixed on the sounds from the stall. He could not see the colt from there. She stayed only long enough to tell him, in a voice she had not used since Jon was alive, that Bess was all right.
At dawn Miller came to look at the mare and colt. Ruth let him work while she took the wet towels away. The foal had found his feet again and was standing close to Bess, a little unsteady when he turned. Miller smiled at the white star. Ruth could not make herself say anything about a sale. It was enough that Bess nosed her son toward the bedding and he stood there breathing.
Four more foals came during the next two weeks. All survived. Ruth learned to sleep in short stretches, to put the feed down before she was fully awake, and to look for trouble before allowing herself to admire them. Their mares gave them solid builds and workable dispositions; Ruin’s height and quick movement showed in different ways as they grew. She handled the young horses every day. None of them came into the world knowing what had happened to their sire.
As they grew, the black colt followed Bess with a confidence that sometimes carried him farther than she liked. A bay filly preferred to watch Ruth work at the fence before coming to be caught. Ruth kept notes about each of them, including the days they made handling difficult. The records were for future buyers, but they also kept her honest when she imagined that every promising movement would solve a bill she had not yet paid.
By autumn the foals were weaned, and the review with the bank could wait no longer. Ruth bought a small advertisement in a regional livestock magazine with credit she could barely spare: sport-horse crosses, handled daily, available to see at the farm. She asked Wayne whether anyone had mentioned the sale at the feed store. He shrugged and said people talked. Miller had clients who might appreciate their movement. Neither man promised that those people would come.
The week before the sale she walked the property with the eye of a stranger. She could not repair the peeling paint or the dipped shed roof, but she could check each gate, clear the aisle, and make the youngsters’ records legible. Ruin watched her carry a stack of folded chairs past his enclosure. He had long since stopped shying from the sight of one. Ruth put the chairs beside the fence and went back for the thermos.
At nine on the sale morning, the drive was empty. Ruth brought out a thermos and set out the records for each youngster. The bank called; she let it ring while she checked the latch on the paddock gate. Across the aisle Ruin chewed hay, and the five weanlings tore around their field with no knowledge of what she needed them to be worth.
At half past nine, a clean truck pulled in. An older trailer followed, then another pickup. By ten, about twenty people had spread along the fence. Some watched the youngsters. Others studied the paperwork. Ruth answered questions about handling and soundness, then moved so buyers could judge the horses for themselves.
A trainer named Cole came from an eventing barn two hours away. He watched Bess’s black colt stop, pivot, and run after the others. “He has the legs for my work,” he told Ruth. “But people say his sire was dangerous.” He did not ask in a way that invited a speech. He wanted to know what sort of mind he might be buying.
Ruth recognized the story the local buyers had heard. It had begun with a driver who refused to enter his trailer and a veterinarian who had not believed the horse could be handled. Both things had been true. Cole was entitled to see the horse and decide for himself. She did not owe him a prettier version of what had happened in the barn.
He had already handled two of the young horses and looked over their records. She noticed that he watched how they settled after a burst of running, not simply how fast they went. That was what made his question about their sire serious. Ruth took the shortest path through the aisle, giving him time to see Ruin standing before they reached the fence.
Ruth could have told him about the trailer, the old scars, or the days when a chair in a stall had seemed like a fool’s idea. Instead she led him across the aisle to the adjacent paddock. Ruin lifted his head from the hay as Cole approached the fence.
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