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Authors: Judy Andrekson

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His pitiful cries continued through the night. By morning his voice was hoarse and his pacing slowed by exhaustion. He welcomed the comforting touches of another creature when E.W. rubbed his neck and soothed him, and he drank deeply from the bucket of water in the kind man’s hands. He showed little interest in his food, however, and after a short rest, was straining to see over the stall door again, searching for any sign of his mother.

He had quieted considerably by later that day, and E.W. decided he would be better off out with the other colts and fillies. The pasture he found himself in was
wonderful, enough to spark even the most unhappy colt’s interest. It was at least forty acres of rolling grasslands and forest just waiting to be explored. A band of unruly weanlings were already there, waiting for him to come play. E.W. had picked up several babies from a breeder in north Mississippi a few weeks earlier, and a couple more from a local auction. It was now late August 1999, and the colt was the last to join the herd. They would be left to grow for a year or so before being trained then either worked on the ranch, or resold.

Heather had very little to do with the colt in the year that followed, although every time their paths would cross, she was reminded of why she disliked him so much. If she went with E.W. to check on cows or put out feed for the young horses, the colt would always find ways to challenge and annoy her. She felt his teeth again one day at the feed trough. Given the chance, he’d splash her with water, or kick out at her as he ran past. With every incident, E.W. would get an earful about “that colt.” All through that winter, E.W. heard a thousand reasons why they could do without a horse like him. The colt was odd looking, growing faster at one end than the other, unbalanced and bad tempered and … it went on and on.

E.W. was soon convinced that this was just the right
horse for his lively young wife to work with. He didn’t tell her so yet, though. She was carrying their first baby that winter, and he was in no rush.

Heather had grown up on horseback and was a fearless, talented show rider. Her father, Morris Lott, had been a jockey, until a back injury forced him to turn in his silks and try his hand at show horses and judging. He had established a show stable in Diamond Head, Mississippi, and had raised his family, along with over two hundred horses, on his impressive property. He was a dedicated horseman and Heather had grown up with horses in her blood.

Heather’s mother, Maria, had supported her husband’s endeavors whole-heartedly, although she was not a horsewoman when they first met. She was soon heavily involved though, showing and caring for the animals and her family, as well as pursuing her own career in education.

Eventually, Morris and Maria had downsized, moving to a small farm in Picayune, Mississippi, to be closer to where Heather was attending school. Their stable was drastically reduced to just a handful of horses.

E.W. had also grown up with horses and farming, having taken over his grandfather’s ranch while still in high school. It had been overgrown and run-down when
he had moved there, but by the time he met Heather and convinced her to marry earlier that year, it was a productive, working ranch, and a place where they looked forward to raising a family of their own.

E.W. felt certain that Heather could not only manage this colt, but somehow
needed
to.

E
.W. began training the youngsters from the yearling herd the following spring, starting with the oldest and most developed animals, and leaving the colt until last. He was still runty and needed time to grow. E.W. was just getting these babies started – asking little more than their acceptance of handling, the halter, bridle, saddle and a rider. They were too young to work yet, but he liked to put a foundation on them before they were much older. It was easier to sell them that way, or to work with them later.

Heather had developed problems with her pregnancy early that spring. This first baby of theirs was eager to be born, far too soon for safety. Heather was put on complete bed rest. Any excessive activity or excitement could cause her to go into premature labor. That’s why she was not involved when the colt was pulled from the big pasture, and E.W. started to work with him.

She could not be left alone for any length of time, so her father started coming to stay with her during the day while E.W. worked. He kept her apprised of the progress being made with the young horses and the workings of the ranch and helped her cope with the restlessness that nearly drove her insane for the next month. When her father mentioned that E.W. had brought in a little Paint colt to start, Heather screwed up her face in disgust. “Waste of energy, that one,” she predicted. “He shouldn’t have brought him home in the first place.”

A month later, Heather was allowed out of bed, but she remained housebound, allowed only as far as the front porch. From her seat on that porch, she had a full view of the paddock, the barns, and the round pen, where E.W. did most of his work with the young horses. Her father would sit beside her, calling out advice to his son-in-law as he worked with a particular horse. For Heather, this was infinitely better than being in bed.

When her birthday arrived, Heather was heavy, housebound, and a little cranky. E.W. kissed her that morning before heading out to care for the livestock, but did not leave her a gift, or suggest that one was coming. Throughout the day, not a word was mentioned about it being her birthday, and despite her greatest efforts to ignore this, by that afternoon, she was feeling hurt and upset that her husband could have forgotten.

That evening, E.W. asked her to come for a short truck ride to the barn to see something. She was not allowed to walk far, but could be driven for short distances. She reluctantly agreed.

E.W. parked outside the horse barn and turned to her with a playful smile. “Bet you thought I forgot your birthday, huh?”

She couldn’t help but smile back, wondering what he had up his sleeve. “I was just about ready to tell you that you’d be sleeping on the couch tonight,” she admitted.

“Well, I didn’t forget,” he said. “I was keeping this a surprise until just the right time.” He held out an envelope, which she took from him eagerly.

Inside was a set of papers, and it took a moment before she realized what it meant. They were registration papers for a new horse … a sorrel overo Paint colt. Her eyes were excited when she looked up at E.W. again. He
grinned and said, “Thought you could use a project to look forward to. Wait here.”

When E.W. came out of the barn, leading her new colt, Heather’s excitement turned to disbelief and anger in an instant. At the end of the lead rope was the shaggy-coated, disproportioned, ugly colt that she’d been complaining about all winter. He couldn’t possibly be serious.
This
was her birthday present?

That night, E.W. slept on the couch!

For the rest of that month, Heather watched from the porch as E.W. started working with “her” colt, teaching him basic verbal commands on the lunge line in the round pen, handling him until he became accustomed to having his feet and body touched all over.

The colt was not as passive and ready to submit to new things as some of the other youngsters had been, and he was a real challenge for E.W. He fought the halter, preferring to go his own way. He shied at E.W.’s touch. He bucked at the feel of the saddlecloth on his back. He was spirited and stubborn and, being a natural herd leader, he was used to having things his own way. He didn’t like the idea of giving in to these humans who used to be so easy to intimidate.

E.W., in his quiet way, brought him around, patiently but firmly, and although the colt continued to
be mischievous and, at times difficult, he was learning his lessons well. When E.W. wasn’t annoyed with him, he was impressed by him. This was a smart colt, probably one of the nicest he had started that summer. And he knew that his wife, set as she was against him, was seeing the very same thing.

Often, when the colt was in his paddock and Heather was in her chair on the porch, the young horse would come to the fence, sniff the air, and just stand and watch her with that one blue eye.

One day, annoyed, she stomped a foot at him and shouted, “What are you looking at?”

Startled, he leaped back from the fence a few feet, then came right back with a deep whinny, as though answering her challenge.

She waved a hand at him. “Scat!”

He circled and returned to the fence, shaking his head, striking with his front hooves, and whinnying again. It was the first “conversation” they had, the first of many to follow in the weeks to come. It became a game that kept them both amused and occupied during long hours of confinement – and the beginning of a very special relationship.

There were days when Heather was confined to her bed again, and on those days E.W. would complain
about how destructive and obnoxious the colt could be. He almost seemed to be missing her and letting the world know all about it. When Heather would return to her chair on the porch and their little game could commence, the colt became cooperative again.

As the weeks passed, the yearling began to develop muscle from the daily work in the round pen, and his body changed from awkward adolescent to graceful youth. Heather began to notice the smoothness of his trot, the arch of his neck, and his pretty head. With daily handling and grooming, he finally lost his long baby hair. In its place was a coat that shone with striking markings that were really quite attractive.

“You know, you may just be able to turn a profit on that colt after all,” she said to E.W. one day.

E.W. grinned at her and answered, “I think that’s one of the first nice things you’ve said about him. And you named him too. Profit. Perfect name!”

Heather made a face at her husband and retorted, “Yeah, well I didn’t say I like him. I’m just saying we might be able to sell him, and thank goodness for that!”

With the coming of August, Heather’s confinement was over. Although she was restricted by her size and discomfort, at least she could walk the grounds and visit the goats and dogs and horses.

She could watch up close as E.W. worked with Profit. She could touch him, groom him, and get to know him better. She liked what she found. He had settled well under E.W.’s guidance and was proving to be an affectionate and likeable little horse, even though he often gave them some reason to curse him. He could untie knots, escape secure fences, and would eat everything in sight, including your lunch if you left it where he could reach it. He was constantly getting into trouble, but he was not mean, and Heather started to really enjoy him.

One day, Heather begged E.W. to let her work with Profit in the round pen, just for a few minutes, just to get the feel of him. E.W. was reluctant, but Heather was persuasive, and he finally agreed and brought the colt out to her. Profit was going well in the round pen now, responding calmly and consistently to voice commands such as walk, trot, lope, whoa, back, and reverse. E.W. watched them get started, then, feeling secure about his wife’s safety and ability, he headed back to the barn to do some other work, instructing her to call him when she was finished.

Heather was in her glory. It had been months since she had stood at the center of the round pen, watching a young horse move around her. Months since she had been able to move with another animal and connect
mentally and physically. She had missed it!

Suddenly, Profit stopped moving and planted himself in front of her, facing the outside fence. “Hey, what are you … ?” Then she spotted it. E.W. kept a small herd of goats, and coming right toward her was the biggest, meanest billy she’d ever seen, with his head lowered and his great, curved horns obviously ready for the charge. She called out to E.W., but he didn’t hear her. Profit came between them, shaking his head at the bad-tempered creature and warning him to stay away. Again and again, the goat tried to charge her, head down and to one side in a butting position, but Profit cut him off every time. Finally, E.W. heard Heather’s cries and ran out with one of the farm dogs to help her. He was amazed to find Profit working the goat like a cow horse, head down, front legs splayed, charging and backing off and doing his best to keep Heather safe.

The next day, the goat disappeared forever, and Heather went into labor, delivering their baby boy. They named him Wesley William, and Profit was raised to hero status.

BOOK: Gunner
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