Whittington

Bernie and Al were away from the station all day. By then his customers knew they were off getting horses. Marion and the two grandchildren knew too. In a small town word gets around.
Abby was ten; her brother, Ben, was eight. They were fair, round-faced kids with big white teeth their faces hadn’t grown into yet. Abby was tall. She stood straight, so she looked older than her years. She had a blaze of gold hair. Ben was sturdy; his hair was darker, buzz-cut. Until the horses came the kids were solemn. They lived with Bernie and Marion. Their mother was dead. They didn’t know where their father was.
The morning after the horses arrived, Bernie went out to his truck at five o’clock to go feed them. Abby and Ben were sitting in it, waiting. They said they’d help. The horses were prancing around the paddock with tails flying when the truck reached the top of the hill. The kids were as excited as the horses. Everybody was smiling. Inside the barn it smelled of fresh hay and horse.
That afternoon Bernie bought brushes and curry combs at the Agway, and a stepladder so the kids could do the horses’ backs. After a couple of days the horses began to smell like the children and the children began to smell like the horses. Abby and Ben rode over with Bernie every morning at five to help muck, feed, and water. Before the horses arrived it was hard to get the kids up for the school bus at seven. Now they had friends who needed them. Sometimes when the kids doled out the sticky grain with molasses and vitamins, the horses would nuzzle and lick them, probably for salt but maybe for love. There is nothing softer or more delicate than a horse’s muzzle. Sometimes if Bernie was standing close by, they’d nuzzle him too. “Go on!” he’d mutter as he pushed them off, but it made him smile. His years fell away when he smiled. You could see the boy he’d been.