The afternoon had cooled off. A soft breeze sped us on our way. We reached a patch where it was safe to trot and then canter for a bit. Both of us enjoyed that. I know Frey wanted to gallop, but the ground was too soft for that, and I wouldn’t take a chance of gopher holes breaking one of his legs.
I reined him only a few minutes later when I heard talking. We slowed and I dismounted, wanting to see who was up ahead before we disturbed them. I whispered to Frey that I didn’t want him to make any noise, but I never knew how much he understood. Obviously not that, because the moment we rounded the bend, still following the curves of the stream, Frey let out a bugle of warning.
I shushed him, but it was too late. The announcement of our presence was loud and startling in the quiet of the afternoon. Even the birds who’d noisily been chattering away a moment before closed their beaks and guardedly watched.
But our alarm proved to be for nothing. It was only two little boys: one, maybe six or seven years old, and the other one looked no more than four. I searched for the adult who should be nearby, but no one seemed to be with them.
“Where are your parents?” I asked, blurting it out like it was my right to question the children.
But even the rudeness of my question didn’t seem to bother them. They were glassy-eyed over Frey.
“Your horse is so big,” the littler one gushed.
The other boy pushed him behind in a protective manner and said, “Yeah, and beautiful. I wish we had a horse. I’d ride him every day if I had a horse. Is this one yours?”