“It was your fault. You’re the big cheese in town who’s supposed to keep people from doing mischief. Two boys practically assaulted me, and Frey here practiced a horse’s favorite response to threat. He galloped me down Main Street and out into the country. Since you still have my tack and haven’t returned it, he had only a rope hackamore on with no bit in his mouth, so he took advantage, and we sped without stopping, jackrabbit-like until I could control him again.
“Then when I finally got him stopped, he was heaving, and sweat was running down his sides. I had to get him to water to cool him off. We walked and walked, which I also needed to do so he wouldn’t colic, and I found this place. I’m sorry if the owner is going to get mad. I sort of drained out all his water. Well, Frey did a portion of that. He was drinking and splashing, and, as I said, I was trying to cool him down with water, and this is the result because Frey loves to play in water and that means he gets me as wet as he is.”
I finally slowed my flow of explanation, and Officer Krugel dismounted and immediately burst into laughter.
“I’m sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in the air as if I were the sheriff and he the one in trouble.
“Here,” he said, turning to the pack on his horse. “This will help your . . . uh, outfit.”
He walked closer, then tossed me a shirt jacket. Flashing through the air as it did, like a ghost or an attacker, the shirt fired up my stallion again. Frey gave out a bugle of alarm and backed away, then gave a full-throttle trumpet of warning.
Again the officer threw up his hands. “No offense, Frey.”
I was delighted that the man had remembered Frey’s name. Most of the villagers had just called Frey: that horse of yours, or the big gray beast. Frey was definitely not a beast, and he deserved to have an identity, but I never told anyone how much their lack of respect for him hurt me. I’d just sighed and kept going, believing that someday I’d earn everyone’s friendship (as would Frey.)
I gave the officer a quick smile, then started to put my arm in the sleeve. “I’m going to get it wet, I’m afraid.”
He shrugged. “It is better than broadcasting so openly that you’re indeed a fully developed woman.”
Of course, I looked down at myself when he said that. My face lit on fire and shot up to the same degree of heat as the village farrier’s forge. I quickly covered myself. Once on, the shirt acted more like a robe than a shirt. (It was at least twenty sizes too big. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it was big!)