Black Hills

cinched the saddle.
    “Take him out on the lounge, like I showed you. Just like you did with him before the saddle. He’ll buck some.”
    Sam stepped back to let the boy and the colt learn. He leaned on the fence, ready to intervene if need be. From behind him, Lucy laid a hand on his shoulder.
    “That’s a sight, isn’t it?”
    “He’s got the touch,” Sam acknowledged. “Got the heart and the head, too. The boy’s a natural with horses.”
    “I don’t want to let him go. I know,” she said before Sam could respond. “Not ours to keep. But it’s going to break my heart a little. I know a true thing, and that’s they don’t love him like we do. So it breaks my heart knowing we have to send him back.”
    “Might be next summer he’ll want to come.”
    “Might be. But oh, it’s going to be quiet between times.” She heaved a sigh, then turned at the sound of a truck. “Farrier’s coming. I’ll go get a pitcher of lemonade.”
     
     
     
    IT WAS the farrier’s son, a gangly towheaded boy of fourteen called Gull who, in the late-afternoon shadows of the barn, gave Coop his first—and last—chaw of tobacco.
    Even after he’d finished puking up his breakfast, his lunch, and everything else still in his system, Coop remained what Gull assessed as green as a grasshopper. Alerted by the sounds of retching, Lucy left her work on her kitchen garden to hustle to the back of the barn. There Coop, on his hands and knees, continued to heave while Gull stood, scratching his head under his hat.
    “Jesus, Coop, ain’t you done as yet?”
    “What happened?” Lucy demanded. “What did you do?”
    “He just wanted to try a chaw. I didn’t see the harm, Miss Lucy, ma’am.”
    “Oh, for—Don’t you know better than to give a boy his age tobacco?”
    “Sure can puke.”
    Since he seemed to be done, Lucy reached down. “Come on, boy, let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”
    Brisk and pragmatic, Lucy hauled him inside. Too weak to protest, Coop only groaned as she stripped him down to his jockeys. She bathed his face, gave him cool water to drink. After she’d lowered the shades against the sun, she sat on the side of the bed to lay a hand on his brow. He opened bleary eyes.
    “It was awful.”
    “There’s a lesson learned.” She bent over, brushed her lips on his forehead. “You’ll be all right. You’ll get through.” Not just today, she thought. And sat with him a little, while he slept off the lesson learned.

    ON THE BIG flat rock by the stream, Coop stretched out with Lil.
    “She didn’t yell or anything.”
    “What did it taste like? Does it taste like it smells, because that’s gross. It looks gross, too.”
    “It tastes . . . like shit,” he decided.
    She snickered. “Did you ever taste shit?”
    “I’ve smelled it enough this summer. Horse shit, pig shit, cow shit, chicken shit.”
    She howled with laughter. “New York has shit, too.”
    “Mostly from people. I don’t have to shovel it up.”
    She rolled to her side, pillowing her head on her hands, and studied him with her big, brown eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to go back. This is the best summer of my whole life.”
    “Me too.” He felt weird saying it, knowing it was true. Knowing the best friend of the best summer of his life was a girl.
    “Maybe you can stay. If you asked, maybe your parents would let you live here.”
    “They won’t.” He shifted to his back, watched a circling hawk. “They called last night, and said how they’d be home next week, and meet me at the airport and . . . Well, they won’t.”
    “If they did, would you want to?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You want to go back?”
    “I don’t know.” It was awful not to know. “I wish I could visit there and live here. I wish I could train Jones and ride Dottie and play baseball and catch more fish. But I want to see my room and go to the arcade and go to a Yankee game.” He rolled toward her again. “Maybe you could visit. We could go to the ballpark.”
    “I don’t think they’d let me.” Her eyes turned sad, and her bottom lip quivered. “You probably won’t ever come back.”
    “Yes, I will.”
    “Do you swear?”
    “I swear.” He offered his hand for a solemn pinky swear.
    “If I write you, will you write me back?”
    “Okay.”
    “Every time?”
    He smiled. “Every time.”
    “Then you’ll come back. So will the cougar. We saw him the very first day, so he’s like our spirit guide. He’s like . . . I