I can tell by the look on Clarissa’s face and in the mirror of her mind what she thinks. I am magnificent. I am the wild mustang on the grassy plains of old. I am the noble warhorse of a thousand generations. I am the industrious plow horse and the elegant carriage horse whose hooves over cobblestone make way for pageantry and kings. I am the pack horse, the racehorse, the show horse and the dream horse of young girls in every place and time. I am the trail horse, the therapy horse, the abandoned horse, the rescued horse—and the slaughtered horse. I am earth horse and spirit horse, untamed and uncontainable. I am the Alpha horse. I am the Omega horse, that last one who will ever live. She knows, and I know, I am every horse. I am gleaming copper and dewy-eyed with liquid hope and promises and she sees it, she knows it.

I am Clarissa’s horse.

“He cleans up real nice,” is all Clarissa says. Seriously, Clarissa? You can run but you can’t hide, I want to tell her. I merely snort my displeasure.

Puffy clouds hang in the sky, a few with gray undertones that threaten a stray shower. They creep overhead, fanned by a breeze just strong enough to keep the greenheads at bay. The gravel crunches loudly under our feet. As we reach the end of the footpath and the barrier of the hedgerow, we emerge at the threshold of a fragrant, freshly mowed field where Sebastian hears us coming and greets us with a smile.
He leans casually against a fence post, his long, lanky body accentuated by a light blue tee shirt over faded jeans and topped by a black cowboy hat that shields his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Clarissa’s nervous energy travels down the lead rope and zaps me in the chin. She had expected to see Sebastian in tidy, tan breeches and a navy polo shirt, his standard uniform for teaching the show girls and their horses how to half-pass and pirouette. She flinches at the sight of him and holds her breath. I exhale for both of us, a loud, nostril-flapping blowout that makes Sebastian laugh. I look at him with a big, round eye. Clarissa is spooky around him and I don’t know why. Maybe I should be spooky too. I prick my ears and stiffen my neck.
“Maybe it’s the hat,” Sebastian says, and lifts it off his head to reveal waves of dark brown hair that tousle in the breeze.
I blow out again.
“Or maybe not. Are you nervous?”
Clarissa can’t deny the flutter in her chest.
“How did you know?”
He points to me and grins. “Meet your mirror. It helps if you breathe.”