Pony Head Quotes

Climbing into bed, I slide my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. I have no idea who my father is. I just had anal! But I have no idea who my father is. ANAL, MOTHERFUCKER! Shit, I hate being so conflicted.

There is nothing special about the mare, nothing at all. A fine enough head, good enough bone. As a pony, she is a beauty. As a capall uisce, she is nothing. The girl too, is nothing special - slight, with a ginger ponytail. She looks less afraid than her mare, but she's in more danger.

Enough already of Lacan, Derrida, and Foucault poured like ketchup over everything. Lacan: the French fog machine; a grey-flannel worry-bone for toothless academic pups; a twerpy, cape-twirling Dracula dragging his flocking stooges to the crypt. Lacan is a Freud T-shirt shrunk down to the teeny-weeny Saussure torso. The entire school of Saussure, inluding Levi-Strauss, write their muffled prose of people with cotton wool wrapped around their heads; they're like walking Q-tips. Derrida: a Gloomy Gus one-trick pony, stuck on a rhetorical trope already available in the varied armory of New Criticism. Derrida's method: masturbating without pleasure. It's a birdbrain game for birdseed stakes. Neo-Foucaldian New Historicism: a high-wax bowling alley where you score points just by knockng down the pins.

I’ve never met a man who can say so much without saying anything at all,” I fumed as Nikolai walked me back to the Little Palace after a particularly wretched session. “There’s got to be something you can do.” “Like what?” “Get one of his prize ponies to kick him in the head.

I grazed her from head to toe: black high heels, dark red lipstick, sleek brown pony and those tyrannical yellow-green eyes, burning holes into the glass. I was sharing an elevator with a tempestuous, electric storm that I refused to calm. I always wished to be swept into madness, if only for a moment, to truncate the mundane, ordinary moments of my existence.

The old jukebox was playing one of Wild Bill’s favorites, Nat King Cole’s, “Smile”—so I knew I was in the right place. I paused a moment to listen to the words, blinking back tears. Intuitively, I knew Wild Bill wouldn’t want to see Sam crying, so I headed to the phone affixed to the wall, pretending to be chatting up an old friend. My fingers traced graffiti on the walls, phone numbers, and hearts with initials engraved inside. Gathering my emotions, I waited for the song to end.

Oh, please. I heard barnyard animal noises coming from your room the other night and someone shouting ‘Pull my reins, bitch!’ I realize you’re twenty-one-years old and theoretically an adult, but if I have to hear that shit one more time when I’m trying to sleep, I will beat you like a red-headed step child,” she warns.

Over the weekend, Bruce introduced me to the game of backgammon, which was enjoying almost cult-like popularity in Los Angeles. He told me about a private club called PIPS that held tournaments on the weekends and was all the rage. Though I had never played the game before, something about backgammon brought the two hemispheres of my brain together, as Stuart had described. To win at backgammon, one needs strategy and luck. Bruce reveled in the role of playing teacher, and I knew if I put my mind to it, I could learn the game and become a fierce opponent, which I hoped would amuse Bruce and help keep a roof over my head. We stayed awake until dawn, snorting coke and playing backgammon. I don’t know if it was the game or the cocaine, but something made me intent on becoming the best.

At last he said, "Did you come out of the big mountains?" Gitano shook his head slowly. "No, I walked down the Salinas Valley." The afternoon thought would not let Joey go. "Did you ever go into the big mountains back there?" The old dark eyes grew fixed, and their light turned inward on the years that were living in Gitano's head.

Rooster said, "Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!" and he took the reins in his teeth and pulled the other saddle revolver and drove his spurs into the flanks of his strong horse Bo and charged directly at the bandits. It was a sight to see. He held the revolvers wide on either side of the head of his plunging steed. The four bandits accepted the challenge and they likewise pulled their arms and charged their ponies ahead.

Before she knew it the afternoon was done, and the trainees were taking their new mounts to the stables for grooming. Daine, Onua, Buri, and Sarge helped then too, though Daine couldn't see how she could ever be comfortable telling a twenty-year-old man he was missing spots on the pony he was grooming. She did try it: "Excuse me, trainee what did you say your name was?" Blue gray eyes twinkled at her over his cream-colored mare's back. "I didn't. It's Farant. " His blond hair curled thickly over his head, almost matching the pony's in color. "Thank you. Trainee Farant, you're missing spots. " "Not at all, sweetheart. I'm just combing too fast for you to see. " "Trainee Farant, you're missing spots!" Sarge boomed just behind Daine. She thought later she actually might have levitated at that moment certainly Farant had. Next time the assistant horsemistress tells you something, don't flirt correct it!" He moved on, and Daine pressed her hands against her burning cheeks. Farant leaned on his mare and sighed. "Yes, Assistant Horsemistress. Right away. " He winked at her and went back to work. Daine went to Sarge as the trainees were finishing up. "Sarge, I-" He shook his head. Daine thought if he leaned against the stable wall any harder, it would collapse. How did a human, without bear blood in him, get to be so large? "Not your fault. These city boys see you, you're young, sweet-lookin'",he winked at her,"they're gonna try to take advantage. If they can't keep their minds on the job after I've had them two weeks already in my patty-paws, then I ain't been doing my job right. " His grin was wolfish. "But that can be fixed. " Seeing her open mouthed stare, he asked, "Something the matter, my lamb?" She closed her jaw. "No, sir. I just never met nobody like you. " "And if you're lucky, you won't again, " muttered Buri, passing by.

Because that saying about sticks and stones is a pack of lies. Unkind words hurt more than anything else. You end up carrying them around in your head, wondering if they’re true. Bruises fade, but self-doubt follows you forever.

I tell those stories, but they're not what I want to tell. I only know how I want people to feel when I tell them. It wasn't Indians that were important, nor adventures, nor even getting out here. It was a whole bunch of people made into one big crawling beast. And I was the head. It was westering and westering. Every man wanted something for himself, but the big beast that was all of them wanted only westering.

The bird looked much smaller dead than alive. Jody felt a little mean pain in his stomach, so he took out his pocketknife and cut off the bird's head. Then he disemboweled it, and took off its wings; and finally he threw all the pieces into the brush. He didn't care about the bird, or its life, but he knew what older people would say if they had seen him kill it; he was ashamed because of their potential opinion.

By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handl

I'd gotten my first glimpse of Elizabeth DeVille. She'd had her hair in a pony-tail that stuck up off the side of her head, and she'd been wearing short red shorts and a light blue tank top with a whale on it. “You like whales?” I'd asked her when I finished with the car. Her face had gone all soft and pretty, making me feel more like one-hundred-and-three than the twenty-three I was, and she'd shrugged. “Yeah, but not a lot more than any other animal. I just like saving things.

The Apache wrenched his pony's head around and when Glanton spun to look at his men he found them frozen in deadlock with the savages, they and their arms wired into a construction taut and fragile as those puzzles wherein the placement of each piece is predicated upon every other and they in turn so that none can move for bringing down the structure entire.

The pony's head rose above the open roof as her mane whipped in the wind. I knew she must be thinking of running free through tallgrass fields, wild daisies slapping her shins, no one to hold her down. I slid my hand up her leg, feeling raised ridges of whip scars. The tips of her ears had been cut. There were smaller scars across her nose. A knife had been used there, perhaps only to remind her who she belonged to. She had lived by the orders and commands of men. Her entire existence on earth and she had never once been allowed to be free. She had been imprisoned and owned, as if all of her value was wrapped up in how large a load she could carry on her back. She had lived her life to the point of being given away, her legs too weak to run, her eyes no longer able to see a world beyond the coal cave she was forced to spend her life in. And yet, now she could feel the wind in her mane. She was not too dead for this small kindness that delivered her from a past of hell to a moment she could believe she was free enough to gallop as she wished. Is this love? she must have been asking herself. Am I finally loved?

I was sleeping. What the hell did you wake me up for?” He complains. “You kicked me and made horse noise.” He stares at me blankly for a moment before scoffing at me in disbelief and sliding back down the bed until his head hits the pillow again. “I was having a dream. Now leave me alone and let me go back to sleep.” When he rolls over I shove my hand against his back. “Were you dreaming about horses? You were fucking prancing in your sleep.” Tyler looks over his shoulder at me and I watch his face redden with embarrassment. “What? You’re delusional. I don’t prance.” I just shake my head at him. “You were totally prancing in your sleep. Prancing and Whinnying like a damn Horse.” “You shut your face! Shut your face right now!” he said I shove my finger close to his nose. “No, YOU shut your prancing face, Twilight Sparkle, before my parents hear you. You’re not even supposed to BE here. You were supposed to sneak out of my bedroom window just like always. Get out of my bed!

Yeah, you like that? You like it when Big Papa gives you his hot and juicy wiener?” I pant, my hips hammering against her. Her fists yank my hair, pulling my head away from her neck so hard that I see stars. “Ow! What the fuck?” I complain as she gives me a dirty look. “You cannot say shit like that when we’re fucking. You Just can’t,” she warns me, letting out a low groan when I shift my hips and grind my pubic bone against her clit. “What’s wrong with a little dirty talk? I thought you’d like it.” “I like dirty talk. I LOVE dirty talk. What you’re doing is not dirty talk. It’s ‘weird as fuck’ talk. Repeat after me: I love fucking you, your pussy is so tight,” Ava demands. (Well, damn, that was hot. I kind of wish I had a vagina right now).

Now, the last one was that the demon king can’t stand either in heaven or on the earth. Urga set the demon on his lap, which means I guess I’ll have to…sit on your back.” Awkward. Even though Ren was a big tiger and it would be like riding a small pony, I was still conscious that he was a man, and I didn’t feel right about turning him into a pack animal. I took off my backpack and set it down wondering what I could do to make this a bit less embarrassing. Mustering the courage to sit on his back, I’d just decided that it wouldn’t be too bad if I sat sidesaddle, when my feet flew out from under me. Ren had changed into a man and swept me up into his arms. I wiggled for a minute, protesting, but he just gave me a look-the don’t-even-bother-coming-up-with-an-argument look. I shut my mouth. He leaned over to pick up the backpack, let it dangle from his fingers, and then said, “What’s next?” “I don’t know. That’s all that Mr. Kadam told me.” He shifted me in his arms, walked over to stand in the doorway again, then peered up at the statue. He murmured, “I don’t see any changes.” He held me securely while looking at the statue and, I have to admit, I totally stopped caring about what we were doing. The scratches on my arm that had been throbbing a moment ago didn’t bother me at all. I let myself enjoy the feeling of being cuddled up close to his muscular chest. What girl didn’t want to be swept up in the arms of a drop-dead gorgeous man? I allowed my gaze to drift up to his beautiful face. The thought occurred to me that if I were to carve a stone god, I’d pick Ren as my subject. This Urga half-lion and half-man guy had nothing on Ren. Eventually, he realized I was watching him, and said, “Hello? Kells? Breaking a curse here, remember?” I just smiled back stupidly. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “What were you thinking about just now?” “Nothing important.” He grinned. “May I remind you that you are in prime tickling position, and there’s no escape. Tell me.” Gads. His smile was brilliant, even in the fog. I laughed nervously. “If you tickle me, I’ll protest and struggle violently, which will cause you to drop me and ruin everything that we are trying to accomplish.” He grunted, leaned close to my ear, and then whispered, “That sounds like an interesting challenge, rajkumari. Perhaps we shall experiment with it later. And just for the record, Kelsey, I wouldn’t drop you.” The way he said my name made goose bumps rise all over my arms. When I looked down to quickly rub them, I noticed the flashlight had been turned off. I switched it on, but the statue remained the same. Giving up, I suggested, “Nothing’s happening. Maybe we need to wait till dawn.” He laughed throatily while nuzzling my ear and declared softly, “I’d say that something is happening, but not the something that will open the doorway.” He trailed soft, slow kisses from my ear down my neck. I sighed faintly and arched my neck to give him better access. With a last kiss, he groaned and reluctantly raised his head. Disappointed that he’d stopped, I asked, “What does rajkumari mean?” He laughed quietly, carefully set me down, and said, “It means princess.

Monkshood was a good hour’s walk from the town proper. The very narrow lanes meant that occasionally you had to throw yourself in the ditch to avoid a car, and once they had to throw themselves in the ditch to avoid a farmer coming by in a blue cart. “The Americans have these inventions called sidewalks,” Jared noted. “We call them pavements,” Kami said. “And we see them as luxuries that you just can’t have with every road.” “You know what goes faster than us? Or even pretty, pretty ponies?” Jared asked. “Your head, spinning through the air when detached from your shoulders after a grisly motorcycle crash

Elegy on Toy Piano" For Kenneth Koch You don't need a pony to connect you to the unseeable or an airplane to connect you to the sky. Necessary it is to love to live and there are many manuals but in all important ways one is on one's own. You need not cut off your hand. No need to eat a bouquet. Your head becomes a peach pit. Your tongue a honeycomb. Necessary it is to live to love, to charge into the burning tower then charge back out and necessary it is to die. Even for the trees, even for the pony connecting you to what can't be grasped. The injured gazelle falls behind the herd. One last wild enjambment. Because of the sores in his mouth, the great poet struggles with a dumpling. His work has enlarged the world but the world is about to stop including him. He is the tower the world runs out of. When something becomes ash, there's nothing you can do to turn it back. About this, even diamonds do not lie.

Now driving in a wild frieze of headlong horses with eyes walled and teeth cropped and naked riders with clusters of arrows clenched in their jaws and their shields winking in the dust and pu the far side of the ruined ranks in a piping of boneflutes and dropping down off the sides of their mounts with one heel hung in the withers strap and their short bows flexing beneath the outstretched necks of the ponies until they had circled the company and cut their ranks in two and then rising up again like funhouse figures, some with nightmare faces painted on their breasts, riding down the unhorsed Saxons and spearing and clubbing them and leaping from their mounts with knives and running about on the ground with a peculiar bandylegged trot like creatures driven to alien forms of locomotion and stripping the clothes from the dead and seizing them up by the hair and passing their blades about the skulls of the living and the dead alike and snatching aloft the bloody wigs and hacking and chopping at the naked bodies, ripping off limbs, head, gutting the strange white torsos and holding up great handfuls of viscera, genitals, some of the savages so slathered up with gore they might have rolled in it like dogs and some who fell upon the dying and sodomized them with loud cries to their fellows.

It was not a bridle-path—merely a pedestrian's track, and the boughs spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat upon the pony's back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her glide into this position was that of a kingfisher—its noiselessness that of a hawk. Gabriel's eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. The tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under

The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and properties of the fireplug, looked into the air after his old enemies the flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling his ear at that moment he shook his head and whisked his tail, after which he appeared full of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The old gentleman having exhausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to lead him; whereupon the pony, perhaps because he held this to be a sufficient concession, perhaps because he happened to catch sight of the other brass plate, or perhaps because he was in a spiteful humour, darted off with the old lady and stopped at the right house, leaving the old gentleman to come panting on behind

Suddenly, the giant, three-headed dog that guards the entrance to the Underworld appears next to her—sans two of its heads—and sits down. As a child, we had a neighbor with a Great Dane, and I know they’re about three feet tall at the shoulder. Allow another twelve inches for their T-Rex-sized heads, and you’ve got a dog that this woman could throw a saddle on and ride like a pony.

Bilbo had never seen or imagined anything of the kind. They were high up in a narrow place, with a dreadful fall into a dim valley at one side of them. There they were sheltering under a hanging rock for the night, and he lay beneath a blanket and shook from head to toe. When he peeped out in the lightning-flashes, he saw that across the valley the stone-giants were out, and were hurling rocks at one another for a game, and catching them, and tossing them down into the darkness where they smashed among the trees far below, or splintered into little bits with a bang. Then came a wind and a rain, and the wind whipped the rain and the hail about in every direction, so that an overhanging rock was no protection at all. Soon they were getting drenched and their ponies were standing with their heads down and their tails between their legs, and some of them were whinnying with fright. They could hear the giants guffawing and shouting all over the mountainsides.

In the moonlight Laura saw the behind of a little black Indian pony, and an Indian on its back. She saw a huddle of blanket and a naked head and a flutter of feathers above it, and moonlight on a gun barrel and then it was all gone. Nothing was there but empty prairie. Pa said he was durned if he knew what to make of it. He said that was the Osage who had tried to talk French to him. He asked, “What’s he doing, out at this hour riding hell bent for leather?” Nobody answered because nobody knew.

I looked back and forth between them, feeling the heat of their anger, the unspoken words swelling in the air like smoke. Jerry took a slow sip from his beer and lit another cigarette. "You don't know anything about that little girl," he told Nona. "You're just jealous because Cap belongs to her now." I could see Nona's heartbeat flutter beneath her t-shirt, the cords tightening in her neck. "Her mommy and daddy might have paid for him," she whispered. "But he's mine." I waited for Jerry to cave in to her, to apologize, to make things right between them. But he held her gaze, unwavering. "He's not." Nona stubbed her cigarette out on the barn floor, then stood. "If you don't believe me," she whispered, "I'll show you." My sister crossed the barn to Cap's stall and clicked her tongue at him. His gold head appeared in the doorway and Nona swung the stall door open. "Come on out." she told him. Don't!" I said, but she didn't pause. Cap took several steps forward until he was standing completely free in the barn. I jumped up, blocking the doorway so that he couldn't bolt. Jerry stood and widened himself beside me, stretching out his arms. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked. Nona stood beside Cap's head and lifted her arms as though she was holding an invisible lead rope. When she began to walk, Cap moved alongside her, matching his pace to hers. Whoa," Nona said quietly and Cap stopped. My sister made small noises with her tongue, whispering words we couldn't hear. Cap's ears twitched and his weight shifted as he adjusted his feet, setting up perfectly in showmanship form. Nona stepped back to present him to us, and Jerry and I dropped our arms to our sides. Ta da!" she said, clapping her hands at her own accomplishment. Very impressive," Jerry said in a low voice. "Now put the pony away." Again, Nona lifted her hands as if holding a lead rope, and again, Cap followed. She stepped into him and he turned on his heel, then walked beside her through the barn and back into his stall. Once he was inside, Nona closed the door and held her hands out to us. She hadn't touched him once. Now," she said evenly. "Tell me again what isn't mine." Jerry sank back into his chair, cracking open a fresh beer. "If that horse was so important to you, maybe you shouldn't have left him behind to be sold off to strangers." Nona's face constricted, her cheeks and neck darkening in splotches of red. "Alice, tell him," she whispered. "Tell him that Cap belongs to me." Sheila Altman could practice for the rest of her life, and she would never be able to do what my sister had just done. Cap would never follow her blindly, never walk on water for her. But my eyes traveled sideways to Cap's stall where his embroidered halter hung from its hook. If the Altmans ever moved to a different town, they would take Cap with them. My sister would never see him again. It wouldn't matter what he would or wouldn't do for her. My sister waited a moment for me to speak, and when I didn't, she burst into tears, her shoulders heaving, her mouth wrenching open. Jerry and I glanced at each other, startled by the sudden burst of emotion. You can both go to hell," Nona hiccuped, and turned for the house. "Right straight to hell.

Tyler pulls his shirt down over his head and I pretend like I’m not sad to see his naked abs go. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me out at three-o’clock in the morning,” he grumbles as he slides his feet into tennis shoes without bothering to tie them. He walks over to the window and slides it open, looking back at me and smirking. “So, same time, same place tomorrow?” Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “No. Absolutely not. We’re not doing this anymore. Leave and don’t come back.” He’s got one leg swung over the windowsill and his body halfway out before he jerks his head back inside and stares at me in surprise. “What? What do you mean ‘don’t come back? Like, don’t come back tomorrow, or ever?” “Ever. This was a huge mistake.” He actually has the nerve to growl at me thank god he didn’t whinny or I’d be puking right into my lap. “Fine! But You’ll be begging for another piece of Tyler, mark my words!” “Jesus Christ, don’t talk about yourself in third person,” I complain. “They comeback, They always come back to Tyler,” he mutters with another smirk, completely ignoring me. “By ‘they’, I’m assuming you’re talking about the ponies you were dreaming about?” I chuckle. “Fuck your face! Fuck you face right now!” he demands. “Get the hell out of my bedroom and don’t come back, Prancer!” I fire back. Sticking his tongue out at me in one poorly-executed, last ditch effort to put me in my place, he tries to smoothly exit my window but his head smacks against the frame. He Lets go of the sill to grab his wounded head and loses his balance, falling out the window and into the shrubs on the otherside. “Mother fucking dick fuck ass cake piece of shit shrub!

She's selling CDs on the corner, fifty cents to any stoner, any homeboy with a boner. Sleet and worse - the weather's awful. Will she live? It's very doubtful. Life out here is never healthful. She puts a CD in her Sony. It's the about the pony and a pie with pepperoni and a mom with warm, clean hands who doesn't bring home guys from bands or make some sickening demands. The cold wind bites like icy snakes. She tries to move but merely shakes. Some thief leans down and simply takes. Her next CD's called Land Of Food. No one there can be tattooed or mumble things that might be crude and everything to eat is free, there's always a big Christmas tree and crystal bowls of potpourri. She's weak but still she play one more: She's on a beach with friends galore. They scamper down the sandy shore to watch the towering waves cascade and marvel at the cute mermaids who call to her and serenade. She can't resist. the water's fine. The rocks are like a kind of shrine. The foam goes down like scarlet wine. One cop stands up and says, "She's gone." The other shakes his head and yawns. It's barely 10:00, and life goes on.

All at once a grizzly bear rose in her path and attacked the pony. She jumped off and her pony escaped, but the bear attacked her, so she fought him the best she could with her knife. Her little dog, by snapping at the bear’s heels and detracting his attention from the woman, enabled her for some time to keep pretty well out of his reach. Finally the grizzly struck her over the head, tearing off almost her whole scalp. She fell, but did not lose consciousness, and while prostrate struck him four good licks with her knife, and he retreated. After he had gone she replaced her torn scalp and bound it up as best she could,

Oh shit, I wouldn’t use that towel if I were you,” Gavin mumbles. I ignore him scrubbing every inch of my face, hoping that maybe I can rub away the memory of the words my mother spoke to me. “Seriously dude, give me that thing,” Gavin says, Interrupting my thoughts. I pull the towel away and glare at his reflection in the mirror. He’s standing behind me with a look of disgust on his face and his hand out. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I just found out that my mom was a slut and has no idea who my dad is and all you’re worried about is your precious towel?” I ramble, my voice getting that hysterical squeak to it. “What’s wrong? Is this one of Charlotte’s ‘good’ towels, reserved for guests or some shit? Fuck, are you pussy whipped.” Gavin shakes his head at me and tries reaching over my shoulder to take the towel. I snatch it away and turn to face him. “What is your fucking deal? It’s a Goddamn towel!” I yell. “Yeah, it’s a jizz towel, dude.” I look at him in confusion, glancing down at the towel and back up at him when what he said finally sinks in. He’s biting his lip and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s trying to think of a way to run out of here as fast as he can. “Hey, what are you guys doing in the bathroom?” Charlotte asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “Oh, my God! Did you just use that towel, Tyler?” I quickly throw the towel away from me like it’s on fire and it lands in the toilet. “Dammit, don’t throw it in the toilet, you’ll ruin it!” Charlotte scolds. “I’m pretty sure you ruined it by putting jizz on it!” I scream. “Why the fuck would you leave a jizz towel on the sink where anyone could use it?” “I’d never use it. I knew it was a jizz towel,” Gavin replies with a shrug. “Oh, my God! I scrubbed my fucking face with a towel that had your dry, crusty jizz on it!” I can’t believe this is happening right now. My mom had a foursome, my dad isn’t my dad and now I have jizz face. Moving as fast as I can, I jump into the shower and turn on the water, not even caring that I’m fully clothed. “Do you want us to leave so you can take your clothes off?” Charlotte asks, as the water rains down on me, soaking my t-shirt and jeans. “I am NOT taking my clothes off. There could be trace particles of jizz on them! I’m going to have to burn these clothes!” I complain. I keep my face under the scalding hot water, taking in large mouthfuls, swishing and then spitting on the shower floor. “Eeew, don’t spit in our shower!” Charlotte scolds. “I HAVE GAVIN’S JIZZ ON MY FACE! I WILL SPIT WHEREVER THE FUCK I WANT!

Time for an exercise, which I shall call 'Say It Out Loud With Miranda'. Please take a moment to sit back, breathe and intone: 'I am taking myself seriously as a woman.' Note your response. If you're reading this on the bus, or surreptitiously in the cinema, or in any other public scenario, then please note other people's responses. (If you are male, and teenaged, and reading this in a room with other teenage boys, then for your own safety I advise you not to participate.) The rest of you – what comes to mind when you say those words? Is it a fine lady scientist, a ballsy young anarchist with tights on her head or a feminist intellectual from the 1970s nose-down in Simone de Beauvoir? Or is it what I think my friend meant when she said 'woman' which is really 'aesthetic object'. Clothes-horse. Show pony. General beautiful piece of well-groomed stuff that's lovely to look at? I reckon, to my great dismay, that she did indeed mean the latter. And in saying that I don't take myself seriously in this regard her assessment of me is absolutely bang-on. If taking oneself seriously as a woman means committing to a like of grooming, pumicing, pruning and polishing one's exterior for the benefit of onlookers, then I may as well heave my unwieldy rucksack to the top of a bleak Scottish hill and make my home there under a stone, where I'll fashion shoes out of mud and clothes out of leaves.

Your hair! You cut it all off!” She pulled off her own hood as she crossed the distance between them. Indeed, the long silver-white hair was now cropped short. It made him look younger, made his tattoo stand out more, and … fine, it made him more handsome, too. Or maybe that was just her missing him. “Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.” “Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head. “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?” His nostrils flared, and she clamped her lips together to keep from laughing.

They don't have the time to take on animals with dietary restrictions and missing legs." "Do you think I don't know that? That's precisely why they're all here with me. No one else would take them. Angus, for example." She moved toward the Highland steer. "Some foolish merchant traveled to Scotland on holiday and decided to bring his wife a pet calf from the Highlands. Never stopped to think about the fact that he would grow." "Surely people aren't that stupid." "Oh, it happens all the time. But usually they make that mistake with pups or ponies. Not cattle." She shook her head. "They dehorned him in the worst, most painful way. When he came to me, the poor dear's wounds were infected. Infested, too. He could have perished from the fly-strike alone. That man was stupid, indeed. The only thing he got right was his choice of calf. Angus is exceedingly adorable." Adorable? Gabe eyed the beast. The animal stood as tall as Gabe's shoulder, and it smelled... the way cattle smell. Shaggy red fur covered its eyes like a blindfold, and its black, spongy nose glistened.

Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong And lonesome comes up as down goes the day And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin' And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin' And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin' And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin' And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin' And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin' And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm And to yourself you sometimes say "I never knew it was gonna be this way Why didn't they tell me the day I was born" And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin' And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet And you need it badly but it lays on the street And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat And you think yer ears might a been hurt Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush And all the time you were holdin' three queens And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean Like in the middle of Life magazine Bouncin' around a pinball machine And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying That somebody someplace oughta be hearin' But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed And no matter how you try you just can't say it And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth And his jaws start closin with you underneath And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign And you say to yourself just what am I doin' On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin' On this curve I'm hanging On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking In this air I'm inhaling Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard Why am I walking, where am I running What am I saying, what am I knowing On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin' On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin' In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin' In the words that I'm thinkin' In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin' Who am I helping, what am I breaking What am I giving, what am I taking But you try with your whole soul best Never to think these thoughts and never to let Them kind of thoughts gain ground Or make yer heart pound ...

They say I must repent and be sorry for my sins," said he. "I have been trying very hard; but I can't think of any, except once that I gave Gog" (his Welsh pony) "such a beating because he would go where I didn't want him. But he's forgotten it long ago; and I gave him two feeds of corn after it, and so somehow I can't feel very sorry now. What shall I do?—But that's not what I mind most. It always seems to me it would be so much grander of God to say: 'Come along, never mind. I'll make you good. I can't wait till you are good; I love you so much.'" His own words were too much for Harry, and he burst into tears at the thought of God being so kind. Euphra, instead of trying to comfort him, cried too. Thus they continued for some time, Harry with his head on her knees, and she kindly fondling it with her distressed hands. Harry was the first to recover; for his was the April time, when rain clears the heavens. All at once he sprung to his feet, and exclaimed: "Only think, Euphra! What if, after all, I should find out that God is as kind as you are!" How Euphra's heart smote her! "Dear Harry," answered she, "God must be a great deal kinder than I am. I have not been kind to you at all." "Don't say that, Euphra. I shall be quite content if God is as kind as you.

Now driving in a wild frieze of headlong horses with eyes walled and teeth cropped and naked riders with clusters of arrows clenched in their jaws and their shields winking in the dust and up the far side of the ruined ranks in a piping of boneflutes and dropping down off the sides of their mounts with one heel hung in the withers strap and their short bows flexing beneath the outstretched necks of the ponies until they had circled the company and cut their ranks in two and then rising up again like funhouse figures, some with nightmare faces painted on their breasts, riding down the unhorsed Saxons and spearing and clubbing them and leaping from their mounts with knives and running about on the ground with a peculiar bandylegged trot like creatures driven to alien forms of locomotion and stripping the clothes from the dead and seizing them up by the hair and passing their blades about the skulls of the living and the dead alike and snatching aloft the bloody wigs and hacking and chopping at the naked bodies, ripping off limbs, heads, gutting the strange white torsos and holding up great handfuls of viscera, genitals, some of the savages so slathered up with gore they might have rolled in it like dogs and some who fell upon the dying and sodomized them with loud cries to their fellows.

Help,’ Jo moaned. ‘I think I’m in a coma.’ It was seven o’clock. The library walls were scrubbed clean and Allie’s neck and shoulders ached whenever she even thought about raising her arms as she sat on the dust sheet next to Jo. ‘Do your arms hurt?’ Allie asked, rubbing her shoulders. ‘God yes.’ ‘Then you’re not in a coma.’ Gingerly Allie stretched out her legs. ‘Jesus. What have I got myself into? Rachel has a swimming pool and horses. Horses, Jo. I could be floating in a pool and petting soft pony noses if I were still at her house.’ ‘Here.’ Jo turned to face her. ‘My nose is soft. You can pet it.’ Allie stroked her nose tiredly. ‘Wow. This is just like being at Rachel’s. Where’s the pool?’ ‘No pool,’ Jo said. ‘Showers.’ ‘Sucks.’ ‘Totally.’ ‘Are you two just going to lie there complaining? Or are you coming to dinner?’ Allie looked up to see Carter standing above them, studying them doubtfully. ‘Jo’s in a coma,’ Allie informed him. ‘She no longer needs food.’ ‘Wait. Did you say food? I think I’m actually awake.’ Jo scrambled to her feet. ‘My God,’ Allie said mildly. ‘It’s a miracle.’ ‘You’ve only been doing this one day, Sheridan.’ Carter reached down to pull her up. ‘You can’t be tired already.’ ‘Everything hurts,’ she said. ‘Shoulders, arms, back …’ ‘Legs, feet, head …’ Jo offered helpfully. ‘Ankles. Shins. Name a body part,’ Allie said. ‘It hurts.’ Carter didn’t look impressed. ‘Food will ease your pain.’ He steered them towards the dining hall. ‘He’s very wise,’ Allie told Jo. ‘Clearly,’ Jo replied.

The company was now come to a halt and the first shots were fired and the grey riflesmoke rolled through the dust as the lancers breached their ranks. The kid's horse sank beneath him with a long pneumatic sigh. He had already fired his rifle and now he sat on the ground and fumbled with his shotpouch. A man near him sat with an arrow hanging out of his neck. He was bent slightly as if in prayer. The kid would have reached for the bloody hoop-iron point but then he saw that the man wore another arrow in his breast to the fletching and he was dead. Everywhere there were horses down and men scrambling and he saw a man who sat charging his rifle while blood ran from his ears and he saw men and he saw men with their revolvers disassembled trying to fit the fit the spare loaded cylinders they carried and he saw men kneeling who tilted and clasped their shadows on the ground and he saw men lanced and caught up by the hair and scalped standing and he saw the horses of war trample down the fallen and a little whitefaced pony with one clouded eye leaned out of the murk and snapped at him like a dog and was gone. Among the wounded some seemed dumb and without understanding and some were pale through the masks of dust and some had fouled themselves or tottered brokenly onto the spears of the savages. Now driving in a wild frieze of headlong horses with eyes walled and teeth cropped and naked riders with clusters of arrows clenched in their jaws and their shields winking in the dust and up the far side of the ruined ranks in a pipping of boneflutes and dropping down off the side of their mounts with one heel hung in the the withers strap and their short bows flexing beneath the outstretched necks of the ponies until they had circled the company and cut their ranks in two and then rising up again like funhouse figures, some with nightmare faces painted on their breasts, ridding down the unhorsed Saxons and spearing and clubbing them and leaping from their mounts with knives and running about on the ground with a peculiar bandylegged like creatures driven to alien forms of locomotion and stripping the clothes from the dead and seizing them up by the hair and passing their blades about the skulls of the living and the dead alike and snatching aloft the bloody wigs and hacking and chopping at the naked bodies, ripping off limbs, heads, gutting the strange white torsos and holding up great handfuls of viscera, genitals, some of the savages so slathered up with gore they might have rolled in it like dogs and some who fell upon the dying and sodomized them with loud cries to their fellows. And now the horses of the dead came pounding out of the smoke and dust and circled with flapping leather and wild manes and eyes whited with fear like the eyes of the blind and some were feathered with arrows and some lanced through and stumbling and vomiting blood as they wheeled across the killing ground and clattered from sight again. Dust stanched the wet and naked heads of the scalped who with the fringe of hair beneath their wounds and tonsured to the bone now lay like maimed and naked monks in the bloodsoaked dust and everywhere the dying groaned and gibbered and horses lay screaming

She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and Peter’s, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down on Peter’s lap at triple speed to the beat. Oh no no no no. Please, no. Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peter’s running onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s hand. “Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have sex in the hot tub.” My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at Peter. “All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering and laughing. Peter’s being frog-marched off the stage, and he frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me. The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me, face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!” I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and everyone saw Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss of my life and everybody saw. Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like, wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Everybody saw us.” “Yeah…that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork. She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though. Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry. No guy has ever set the record straight for me.

The first time Christina and Lachlan Meet ...Christina wasn't about to stop fighting—not until she took her last breath. Boring down with her heels, she thrashed. "Get off me, ye brute." She would hold her son in her arms this day if it was the last thing she did. And by the shift of the crushing weight on her chest, she only had moments before her life's breath completely whooshed from her lungs. The very thought of dying whilst her son was still held captive infused her with strength. With a jab, she slammed the heel of her hand across the man's chin. He flew from her body like a sack of grain. Praises be, had the Lord granted her with superhuman strength? Blinking, Christina sat up. No, no. Her strike hadn't rescued her from the pillager. A champion had. A behemoth of a man pummeled the pikeman's face with his fists. "Never. Ever." His fists moved so fast they blurred. "Harm. A. Woman!" Bloodied and battered, the varlet dropped to the dirt. A swordsman attacked her savior from behind. "Watch out," she cried, but before the words left her lips the warrior spun to his feet. Flinging his arm backward, he grabbed his assailant's wrist, stopped the sword midair and flipped the cur onto his back. Onward, he fought a rush of English attackers with his bare hands, without armor. Not even William Wallace himself had been so talented. This warrior moved like a cat, anticipating his opponent's moves before they happened. Five enemy soldiers lay on their backs. "Quickly," the man shouted, running toward her, his feet bare. No sooner had she rolled to her knees than his powerful arms clamped around her. The wind whipped beneath her feet. He planted her bum in the saddle. "Behind!" Christina screamed, every muscle in her body clenching taut. Throwing back an elbow, the man smacked an enemy soldier in the face resulting in a sickening crack. She picked up her reins and dug in her heels. "Whoa!" The big man latched onto the skirt of her saddle and hopped behind her, making her pony's rear end dip. But the frightened galloway didn't need coaxing. He galloped away from the fight like a deer running from a fox. Christina peered around her shoulder at the mass of fighting men behind them. "My son!" "Do you see him?" the man asked in the strangest accent she'd ever heard. She tried to turn back, but the man's steely chest stopped her. "They took him." "Who?" "The English, of course." The more they talked, the further from the border the galloway took them. "Huh?" the man mumbled behind her like he'd been struck in the head by a hammer. Everyone for miles knew the Scots and the English were to exchange a prisoner that day. The champion's big palm slipped around her waist and held on—it didn't hurt like he was digging in his fingers, but he pressed firm against her. The sensation of such a powerful hand on her body was unnerving. It had been eons since any man had touched her, at least gently. The truth? Aside from the brutish attack moments ago, Christina's life had been nothing but chaste. White foam leached from the pony's neck and he took in thunderous snorts. He wouldn't be able to keep this pace much longer. Christina steered him through a copse of trees and up the crag where just that morning she'd stood with King Robert and Sir Boyd before they'd led the Scottish battalion into the valley. There, she could gain a good vantage point and try to determine where the backstabbing English were heading with Andrew this time. At the crest of the outcropping, she pulled the horse to a halt. "The pony cannot keep going at this pace." The man's eyebrows slanted inward and he gave her a quizzical stare. Good Lord, his tempest-blue eyes pierced straight through her soul. "Are you speaking English?

I often like to address a number (1..5 works, or 1..10) based on the severity of the problem as well. One being, “That wasn’t so bad, my pony just threw a shoe.” Ten being, “My pony got his head caught in the fence. This cowboy was pissed.

The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whichever way you look. Imagine a blue sky—so clear-blue and pure that you can see against it the very feathers in the tails of wheeling kites, and know that they are brown, not black. Imagine all the houses, and the shacks between them, and the poles on which the burlap awnings hang, painted on flat canvas and stood up against that infinite blue. Stick some vultures in a row along a roof-top—purplish—bronze they’ll look between the tiles and sky. Add yellow camels, gray horses, striped robes, long rifles, and a searching sun-dried smell. And there you have El-Kerak, from the inside. From any point along the broken walls or the castle roof you can see for fifty miles over scenery invented by the Master-Artist, with the Jordan like a blue worm in the midst of yellow-and-green hills twiggling into a turquoise sea. The villains stalk on-stage and off again sublimely aware of their setting. The horses prance, the camels saunter, the very street-dogs compose themselves for a nap in the golden sun, all in perfect harmony with the piece. A woman walking with a stone jar on her head (or, just as likely, a kerosene can) looks as if she had just stepped out of eternity for the sake of the picture. And not all the kings and kaisers, cardinals and courtezans rolled into one great swaggering splurge of majesty could hold a candle to a ragged Bedouin chief on a flea-bitten pony, on the way to a small-town mejlis.

Is there anything else we should do?" said Poppy. Scarlett clapped her hands. "I know! We could set some booby traps." Sam looked at her as if she was mad, but Poppy's mind was whirring. "You're right. You know that roll of electric fence wire in the hay barn?" The other two nodded. "Why don't we lay it along the front gate so when he goes to open it he gets an electric shock?" Scarlett grinned evilly. "Oh yes, I'm loving that idea. And we could arrange those bits of barbed wire he so kindly left on the driveway so he gets a puncture." "Neat," Poppy said. "What about tying together baler twine to make a trip wire? We could fix it just inside the gate." Scarlett nodded vigorously. "And I could do the old Tom and Jerry classic and leave a couple of rakes on the ground. With any luck he'll stand on one and whack himself on the head." Sam's eyebrows were raised as he looked from one girl to the other. "Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you two. You're reprobates." "He won't be getting anything more than he deserves," said Poppy grimly.   Half

But as her body moves, all the yarn in the room suddenly gains tension. There's a swift swishing sound as the lines pull taut. She feels everything in the room move at once, from the big ropey lines supporting her weight, down to the tiny interlocking stitches pressed against her skin. "She rests in mid-air, suspended above her bed by the network of yarn slicing around the room. It holds her, and at the same time it caresses her. She feels its touch through the stitches on her arms, her legs, her stomach. It feels as if her weight is held in its giant hand, and it contemplates her like Yorick's skull. Hundreds of strings and lines of yarn, ranging from individual strands up to thick knitted cables now move on her. She is wrapped by long meaty loops that move around her legs, and her arms, and her neck; and thin little strings that slip between her fingers. A loop circles her hair and pulls it gently into a pony tail, and it lifts to supports her head. "She hangs quietly and meditatively for a while, feeling the caress of the yarn, gently tightening and loosening, and sliding over her body. It feels along her body. And as it feels her, she feels it. She can feel its affection through the way the yarn touches her. The caresses slide up and down her arms, her legs, between her fingers, and around her neck. "She can feel all the different textures of the different yarns. The scratchy itch of cheap wool, and the smooth toughness of nylon and polyester strings. In places there's even some slick and soft rayon and silk. And she's sure she can tell just by the touch of it, that her foot has been wrapped in a small scarf she made of an extremely fine cashmere. "But the thing doesn't just want to hold her.

Least you got a nice, strong reason,” I said. “Don’t like him,” Virgil said. 16 PONY HAD BREAKFAST with us at Café Paris on Friday. The Chinaman who ran the café had some chickens, and they had been laying recently. So, with our beans and salt pork and biscuits, we each had an egg. “Sick of cooking for me and Kha-to-nay,” Pony said. “How is life out on the prairie,” I said. Pony shrugged. “Quiet,” he said. “But Kha-to-nay wants to go back to war with white-eyes.” “Ain’t gonna win that,” I said. “I know,” Pony said. “Try to keep him alive long as I can. Balloon go up here on Sunday?” Virgil shook his head. “No?” I said. Virgil shook his head again. “He backed off the shooting,” Virgil said. “Soon’s we brought it up.” “Scared?” Pony said. Virgil shook his head. “Ambitious,” he said. “Afraid it would spoil his plan to be governor?” I said. “Yep.” “He did shift the tone of the conversation,” I said. “He tell you go,” Pony said. “He tell you, you not go he kill you.” “True,” Virgil said. “But he won’t.” “Think I come in town, anyway,” Pony said. “Stay with you Sunday.” “ ’Preciate it,” Virgil said. “But I ain’t wrong ’bout this.” “Wants to be known as the man who cleaned up Appaloosa,

I’m sweaty. I’m tired. And I stink in places I really shouldn’t be stinking.” I whine and shoot a glare to Dean, who’s sitting in the passenger seat looking sheepish. “What?” he exclaims with his hands raised. “I didn’t know we’d have fucking car trouble. Your car isn’t even a year old.” “I know!” I snap, hitting my hand on the wheel and growling in frustration. “Stupid old lady car!” I exclaim and push my head closer to the window for a breeze. “The frickin’ air conditioning isn’t even working anymore. Me and this car are officially in a fight.” “I think we all just need to remain calm,” Lynsey chirps from the back seat, leaning forward so her head comes between Dean’s and mine. “Because, as horrible as this trip was, after everything that’s happened between the three of us the past couple of years, I think this was really healing.” I close my eyes and shake my head, ruing the moment I agreed that a road trip to the Rocky Mountains to pick up this four-thousand-dollar carburetor from some hick who apparently didn’t know how to ‘mail things so they don’t get lost.’” Honestly! How are people who don’t use the mail a thing? Though, admittedly, when we got to the man’s mountain home, I realized that he was probably more familiar with the Pony Express. And I couldn’t be sure his wife wasn’t his cousin. But that’s me being judgmental. Still, though, it’s no wonder he wouldn’t let me PayPal him the money. I had to get an actual cashier’s check from a real bank. Then on our way back down the mountain, I got a flat tire. Dean, Lynsey, and I set about changing it together, thinking three heads could figure out how to put a spare tire on better than one. One minute, I’m snapping at Dean to hand me the tire iron, and the next minute, he’s asking me if I’m being a bitch because he told me he had feelings for me. Then Lynsey chimes in, hurt and dismayed that neither of us told her about our conversation at the bakery, and it was a mess. On top of all of that, my car wouldn’t start back up! It was a disaster. The three of us fighting with each other on the side of the road looked like a bad episode of Sister Wives: Colorado Edition. I should probably make more friends. “God, I hope this thing is legit,” Dean states, turning the carburetor over in his hands. “Put it down. You’re making me nervous,” I snap, eyeing him cautiously. We’re only five miles from Tire Depot, and they close in ten, so my nerves are freaking fried. “I just want to drop this thing off and forget this whole trip ever happened.” “No!” Lynsey exclaims. “Stick to the plan. This is your grand gesture! Your get out of jail free card.” “I don’t want a get out of jail free card,” I cry back. “The longer we spent on that hot highway trying to figure out what was wrong with my car, the more ridiculous this plan became in my head. I don’t want to buy Miles’s affection back. I want him to want me for me. Flaws and all.” “So what are you going to do?” Dean asks, and I feel his concerned eyes on mine. “I’m going to drop this expensive hunk of metal at the counter and leave. I’m not giving it to him naked or holding the thing above my head like John Cusack in Say Anything. I’ll drop it off at the front counter, and then we’ll go. End of story.” Lynsey’s voice pipes up from behind. “That sounds like the worst ending to a book I’ve ever heard.” “This isn’t a book!” I shriek. “This is my life, and it’s no wonder this plan has turned into such a mess. It has desperation stamped all over it. I just want to go home, eat some pizza, and cry a little, okay?” The car is dead silent as we enter Boulder until Dean’s voice pipes up. “Hey Kate, I know you’re a little emongry right now, but I really don’t think you should drive on this spare tire anymore. They’re only manufactured to drive for so many miles, you know.” I turn and glower over at him. He shrinks down into his seat a little bit.

Lorenzo steps closer, his body a breath away from mine as he whispers, "Trust me?" I have no idea what he's asking, but I nod because what else am I gonna do? We're about to go to dinner and pretend like we're happy newlyweds with someone who could blow up my entire social circle, and likely my professional life, with a single well-placed word. Lorenzo walks me backward until my back hits the wall. I gasp, surprised. But he's not done. "Trust me," he orders softly. And with that, he picks me to straddle him and slams my back against the door with a thump. It rattles loudly behind me. "Fuck, Abigail, Quick, mia rosa. Come on my cock before your friends get here or they're going to hear me fucking you deep and hard. I want your cum on me and my cum in you while we sit at this prim and proper dinner, wife." I gasp, both at his filthy talk and the ridge of his cock pressing against my core. "Ungh." I can't make words, am barely making incoherent sounds, and Lorenzo lifts one hand from my thigh to hold my head still. He meets my eyes, one of his brows lifted pointedly. If I couldn't feel his cock, I wouldn't even know what this is doing to him. For all the fire rushing through my body and turning my brain to melted goo, he's clear-eyed and has a plan. I blink and realize what he's doing. Emily needs to think we're newlyweds, and what do newlyweds do non-stop? Fuck. Now that I've caught on, he winks at me and I smile back. He thrusts against me and I bounce on the door. "Yes, hard ... just like that," I moan. He grunts, finding a pace that is actually doing a lot for me even though I just came in the shower a bit ago. I'd be embarrassed at the wet heat of my core, but his cock jumps against me. I like that he's carried away too as he dry humps me, only hinting at what we're playacting. "Take it. Take me, Abigail," he hisses through clenched teeth. Is that for effect or is he holding the reins that tightly? "Yes, my Italian Stallion!" I cry out, clawing at his shoulders for purchase. Confusion mars his face as he mouths, "Italian Stallion?" I shake me head and whisper back, "I don't know, it just came out." He grins like that's the funniest thing he's ever heard and goes back to thrusting against me with renewed furor. "That's it, mia rosa. Are you going to come for me?" Oh shit. I am. Like I am ... for real. Any sane, rational, reasonable person would tilt their hips and move away from the power of his thrusts to save a little face. Do I? Absolutely not. If anything, I'm humping him back, riding him like the pony at my sixteenth birthday party. Don't laugh ... it was an amazing blowout. Like I'm about to have ... "Yes, yes. Right there Lorenz-ohh!" He pulls me tight against him, his cock grinding against my clit as he grunts through several short strokes and says something I don't understand in Italian. Is he? Did he? As I float back to Earth and realize what just happened, there's another knock on the door. This one is harder and louder. "Hey, Abi! We have reservations, you know?" Emily yells through the wood, literally inches away from where I just loudly came on Lorenzo's cock for real.

The horses, reluctant and excited from the first, become furious and wild. At the next shoal-personal nastiness being past consideration-we dismount, at knee-deep, to give them a moment's rest, shifting the mule's saddle to the trembling long-legged mare, and turning Mr. Brown loose, to follow as he could. After a breathing-spell we resume our splashed seats and the line of wade. Experience has taught us something, and we are more shrewd in choice of footing, the slopes around large trees being attractively high ground, until, by a stumble on a covered root, a knee is nearly crushed against a cypress trunk. Gullies now commence, cut by the rapid course of waters flowing off before north winds, in which it is good luck to escape instant drowning. Then quag again; the pony bogs; the mare, quivering and unmanageable, jumps sidelong among loose corduroy; and here are two riders standing waist-deep in mud and water between two frantic, plunging-horses, fortunately not beneath them. Nack soon extricates himself, and joins the mule, looking on terrified from behind. Fanny, delirious, believes all her legs broken and strewn about her, and falls, with a whining snort, upon her side. With incessant struggles she makes herself a mud bath, in which, with blood-shot eyes, she furiously rotates, striking, now and then, some stump, against which she rises only to fall upon the other side, or upon her back, until her powers are exhausted, and her head sinks beneath the surface. Mingled with our uppermost sympathy are thoughts of the soaked note-books, and other contents of the saddle-bags, and of the.hundred dollars that drown with her. What of dense soil there was beneath her is now stirred to porridge, and it is a dangerous exploit to approach. But, with joint hands, we length succeed in grappling her bridle, and then in hauling her nostrils above water. She revives only for a new tumult of dizzy pawing, before which we hastily retreat. At a second pause her lariat is secured, and the saddle cut adrift. For a half-hour the alternate resuscitation continues, until we are able to drag the head of the poor beast, half strangled by the rope, as well as the mud and water, toward firmer ground, where she recovers slowly her senses and her footing. Any further attempts at crossing the somewhat "wet" Neches bottoms are, of course, abandoned, and even the return to the ferry is a serious sort of joke. However, we congratulate ourselves that we are leaving, not entering the State.

Marry me," he said. Her eyes widened. "What?" She nearly fell off the horse. "Marry me, Kate," he repeated. He swallowed hard. "I need you in my life. Please. Say you'll be my duchess." "Rohan..." He took a step closer. "I know I said some boorish, stupid things that day in the music room. You were right. I was scared. I didn't know how it could be between us, but I see it now. And that night on your father's ship, I acted like a brute, telling you to prove your love by sleeping with me. It was wrong." She shook her head. "You needed me." "I did. I still do. I always will. I don't know what I'll do if you say no." He lowered his head. "I know you've reason to be wary. That I can be a thoroughgoing bastard sometimes. I've had too many women in the past, but, God, I don't want that anymore. And it is true, I, er, kill people now and then, but just to safeguard England. And if you can live with that---" He shook his head with a tempestuous fire in his eyes. "On my word, I will be true to you, and I will love you until the end of time." Kate had lost the power of speech. Indeed, she could barely breathe. Tears rushed into her eyes. Lord Byron himself could not have uttered more romantic sentiments. "There can be no other for me, Kate, but you." The Beast walked over and stared hard into the depths of her eyes; sitting on the pony's back, she was on eye level with him for once, and the whole tumult of his soul was there in his eyes, discovering love for the first time, setting his heart free at last. "You... make me feel things I've never experienced before. You've been so patient, and I've been such a fool." "No, you haven't," she breathed, wonder-struck by him. Was this just a dream? "Stay with me always," he implored her in a confidential whisper. "And love me... as I love you." "You---love me?" she echoed, her chin trembling in the most embarrassing fashion. "With all my heart," he vowed in a soft but fierce tone, looking as deeply moved as she. He touched her hair, tucking a windblown lock of it behind her ear. "Kate, you and I were meant to be together. I'm still superstitious enough to know when I have found my destiny. It's you. You're the one who broke the curse.

Perita is the dog,” Gracie said, in a tone which implied Rosalind was a dimwit for having not immediately understood this. “You packed for a dog. Yes, I see.” The young dog was a lovely chocolate brown with the typical black mastiff mask. “She has quite a big head,” Rosalind observed. “Of course, she does.” Gracie sounded affronted by her sister’s ignorance. “That’s the breed. Her mother, Medea, was even bigger than Hercules, you know.” Rosalind was impressed. Hercules was the size of a small pony. At least, that’s how it seemed when he was flying through the halls of Sweetbriar and came barreling unexpectedly around a corner. “Why Perita? Don’t you mean Perdita?” “Not Shakespeare, silly. Alexander the Great.” Gracie was looking disgusted once more. “Well, his was Peritas as it was male. I’ve feminized it. Did you know Peritas bit off an elephant’s face when it tried to charge Alexander once?” “Bit it off?” “Probably not completely off. At least, I hope not. But I suppose it would have been justified if Peritas was protecting his master from being trampled to death,” Gracie said, looking thoughtful. “I’m sure Perita would do the very same for me. Or you.” She rubbed the pup’s head affectionately. “Yes. How lovely.” Rosalind decided not to imagine what a faceless elephant would look like.

A goat?” he snaps. His eyes meet mine and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling. “A fucking what?” he explodes. “A pony and a pig? No way. Not on your life. Come and take them away. Right. Now.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Who the hell do I sell them to?” he fires back. “This isn’t Jack and the Beanstalk, Brianna, you don’t go to fucking market to sell a pig.” I burst out laughing, Elliot glares at me, and I slap my hand over my mouth.

and curled his top lip as if he was laughing his speckled head off.

Slivers of sunlight stole through a gap in Poppy's curtains and danced on her closed eyelids with dogged determination, willing her to wake up. She yawned, stretched her arms above her head and rotated her bad ankle. Relieved to discover it was well and truly on the mend, she reached for her phone and tried to open the Nethercote website. Large red letters told her the server application was unavailable. She hit refresh but the page failed to load. Poppy stabbed at the refresh button a couple more times before texting Jodie.

choosing sites for the Wild West to play-began to show up in greatly diminished receipts. Losses mounted as the decrepit old tub chugged south. By the time they neared New Orleans, Cody decided that he'd better go on ahead and look into Pony Bob's arrangements himself. At the site of the exposition, he hired a hack and headed through a pouring rain for the show grounds. The first man he saw there was traveling across the arena in a rowboat. Fortunately, Cody was

for the rest of the night. Other than to refuel with holiday leftovers. “Would you still love me if I told you I didn’t know what tasted better, Christmas leftovers or you?” Jana cocked her eyebrow with a sexy smile on her face. Damn, she was beautiful. “No but I will be mad unless you do some very thorough research and come up with a satisfying answer…” I grinned. This Christmas was unlike any of the others Jana and I had spent together. This time we had two little boys, a bigger family and we’d faced our biggest threat yet and come out on top. “If it’s for the sake of research, consider me in babe.” And I spent the rest of the night doing science. Between the gorgeous legs of my beautiful wife. I was pretty sure in that moment, life for the Reckless Bastard’s couldn’t get any better. Merry friggin’ Christmas to us! * * * * If you think the Reckless Bastards are spicy bad boys, they’re nothing compared to the steam in my next series Reckless MC Opey, TX Chapter where Gunnar and Maisie move to Texas! There’s also a sneak peek on the next page.   Don’t wait — grab your copy today!  Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Chapter One Gunnar “We’re gonna be cowboys!” Maisie had been singing that song since we got on the interstate and left Nevada and the only family we’d had in the world behind. For good. Cross was my oldest friend, and I’d miss him the most, even though I knew we’d never lose touch. I’d miss Jag too, even Golden Boy and Max. The prospects were cool, but I had no attachment to them. Though I gave him a lot of shit, I knew I’d even miss Stitch. A little. It didn’t matter that the last year had been filled with more shit than gold, or that I was leaving Vegas in the dust, we were all closer for the hell we’d been through. But still, I was leaving. Maisie and I’d been on the road for a couple of days. Traveling with a small child took a long damn time. Between bathroom breaks and snack times we’d be lucky to make it to Opey by the end of the month. Lucky for me, Maisie had her mind set on us becoming cowboys, complete with ten gallon hats, spurs and chaps, so she hadn’t shed one tear, yet. It wasn’t something I’d been hoping for but I was waiting patiently for reality to sink in and the uncontrollable sobs that had a way of breaking a grown man’s heart. “You’re not a boy,” I told her and smiled through the rear view mirror. “Hard to be a cowboy if you’re not even a boy.” Maisie grinned, a full row of bright white baby teeth shining back at me right along with sapphire blue eyes and hair so black it looked to be painted on with ink. “I’m gonna be a cowgirl then! A cowgirl!” She went on and on for what felt like forever, in only the way that a four year old could, about all the cool cowgirl stuff she’d have. “Boots and a pony too!” “A pony? You can’t even tie your shoes or clean up your toys and you want a pony?” She nodded in that exaggerated way little kids did. “I’ll learn,” she said with the certainty of a know it all teenager, a thought that terrified the hell out of me. “You’ll help me, Gunny!” Her words brought a smile to my face even though I hated that fucking nickname she’d picked up from a woman I refused to think about ever again. I’d help Maisie because that’s what family did. Hell, she was the reason I’d uprooted my entire fucking life and headed to the great unknown wilds of Texas. To give Maisie a normal life or as close to normal as I was capable of giving her. “I’ll always help you, Squirt.” “I know. Love you Gunny!” “Love you too, Cowgirl.” I winked in the mirror and her face lit up with happiness. It was the pure joy on her face, putting a bloom in her cheeks that convinced me this was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to move to Texas, and I didn’t want to live on a goddamn ranch, but that was my future. The property was already bought and paid for with my name

After pulling on my short rubber boots I head out the back door, shuddering as I imagine the starved pony. I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she hoping someone’s coming to save her?

The grandfather was dresses in a black broadcloth suit and he wore kid congress gaiters and a black tie on a short, hard collar. He carried his black slouch hat in his hand. His white beard was cropped close and his white eyebrows overhung his eyes like mustaches. The blue eyes were sternly merry. About the whole face and figure there was a granite like dignity, so that every motion seemed an impossible thing. Once at rest, it seemed the old man would be stone, would never move again. His steps were slow and certain. Once made, no step would ever be retracted: once headed in a direction, the path would never bend nor the pace increase nor slow.

The beliefs in individual competition and reason we have been discussing are the ones which in actuality have guided modern western development, and are not necessarily the ideal values. To be sure, the values accepted as ideal by most people have been those of the Hebrew-Christian tradition allied with ethical humanism, consisting of such precepts as love thy neighbor, serve the community, and so on. On the whole, these ideal values have been taught in schools and churches hand in hand with the emphasis on competition and individual reason. (We can see the watered-down influence of the values of “service” and “love” coming out in roundabout fashion in the “service clubs” and the great emphasis on being “well liked.”) Indeed, the two sets of values—the one running back many centuries to the sources of our ethical and religious traditions in ancient Palestine and Greece and the other born in the Renaissance—were to a considerable extent wedded. For example, Protestantism, which was the religious side of the cultural revolution beginning in the Renaissance, expressed the new individualism by emphasizing each person’s right and ability to find religious truth for himself. The marriage had a good deal to be said for it, and for several centuries the squabbles between the marriage partners were ironed out fairly well. For the ideal of the brotherhood of man was to a considerable extent furthered by economic competition—the tremendous scientific gains, the new factories and the more rapid moving of the wheels of industry increased man’s material weal and physical health immensely, and for the first time in history our factories and our science can now produce so much that it is possible to wipe starvation and material want from the face of the earth. One could well have argued that science and competitive industry were bringing mankind ever closer to its ethical ideals of universal brotherhood. But in the last few decades it has become clear that this marriage is full of conflict, and is headed for drastic overhauling or for divorce. For now the great emphasis on one person getting ahead of the other, whether it be getting higher grades in school, or more stars after one’s name in Sunday school, or gaining proof of salvation by being economically successful, greatly blocks the possibilities of loving one’s neighbor. And, as we shall see later, it even blocks the love between brother and sister and husband and wife in the same family. Furthermore, since our world is now made literally “one world” by scientific and industrial advances, our inherited emphasis on individual competitiveness is as obsolete as though each man were to deliver his own letters by his own pony express. The final eruption which showed the underlying contradictions in our society was fascist totalitarianism, in which the humanist and Hebrew-Christian values, particularly the value of the person, were flouted in a mammoth upsurgence of barbarism.

Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head. “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?

20 percent and that's my final offer." Dog folded his arms across his chest in a move that I assumed was meant to intimidate. He had sizable muscle, but the effect was watered down by his My Little Pony tattoos. I could swear I saw Fluttershy wink. "Don't give me that 20 percent bullshit," I said. "I work in retail. I know the margins and I know you didn't buy these goods so everything is profit for you." "You didn't tell me she was a hard-ass." Dog glared at Jack. "I like to keep the good stuff to myself." "Give me the Boxing Day special," I said. "Six A.M. door crasher." His eyes widened. "40 percent?" I shook my head. "First five people in the door." "Sixty?" "Take it or leave it." I pulled out a wad of cash. We'd all chipped in to cover the costs in hopeful anticipation of a bigger return at the end. Dog took the money, but not before registering a complaint with customer service. "You said she was a newb," he said to Jack. "She's a smart and savvy newb." Jack grinned. "Gotta say, it's pretty damn hot.

She grabbed at the edge of her pillow, trying to pull it out from under AJ’s head. I listened to them tussle for a moment, then Katy shrieked. “Ow! Did you just bite me?” “You don’t grow up with two older brothers without learning to defend yourself,” AJ told her as the door opened and the light came on. We all cried out and covered our eyes, blinded by the sudden brightness. Katy’s mum stood in the doorway, glaring at us. “Would you lot shut up and go to sleep?” “AJ bit me!” Katy told her mother, holding her wrist out for inspection. “Good for her. Go to sleep,” Deb said unsympathetically.

Since you seemed to think that we would be doing a good amount of fighting here, shorter hair is more useful. Though I can’t say that your hair might be considered the same. You might as well have dyed it blue.” “Hush. Your hair was so pretty. I was hoping you’d let me braid it one day. I suppose I’ll have to buy a pony instead.” She cocked her head. “When you shift, will your hawk form be plucked, then?” His nostrils flared, and she clamped her lips together to keep from laughing.

You might fool some young sprout with that he-hasn’t-asked-me business, but not me. I seen many a young buck Indian give twenty head of ponies for some squaw when he could have had better ones for ten. Just because she wanted him like, and caused him to figure the price was cheap. No, sir! I’d rather try to get away from a bear trap on each foot and each hand, than a woman with her head set on marriage.

pony swished his tail and lifted his head, shaking off a few beads of early morning dew.  He snorted, and clouds of steam erupted from his nostrils as if he

The fact that QQ’s own mobile version lost out to an internal underdog has become a classic business case-study on the power of unpredictable disruption. It wasn’t as if Tencent set out to supersede its early hit – it’s just that QQ lost sight of where the future was heading and missed out on the arrival of the mobile era. ‘You either wait for someone else to kill you, or you kill yourself first,’ is one of Pony’s most often-quoted mantras. That value, which has been instilled into every employee, explains Tencent’s paranoid leadership.

If life is a journey to the great unknown, then death must be a journey too. And while some people might know exactly where they’re going, other people might not. Maybe they meander a little, not sure where they’re headed, or feel a bit lost. Maybe they need a map, like foreigners in a new country. They’re looking for landmarks. A compass. Instructions on where to go.

better to risk the time faults.” “No,” Issie shook her head. “It’s not…

The fact that there were more adults than children at her party didn't seem to faze Dixie. "That child is like a dandelion," Lettie said. "She could grow through concrete." Dixie's birthday party had a combination Mardi Gras/funeral wake feel to it. Mr. Bennett and Digger looped and twirled pink crepe paper streamers all around the white graveside tent until it looked like a candy-cane castle. Leo Stinson scrubbed one of his ponies and gave pony rides. Red McHenry, the florist's son, made a unicorn's horn out of flower foam wrapped with gold foil, and strapped it to the horse's head. "Had no idea that horse was white," Leo said, as they stood back and admired their work. Angela, wearing an old, satin, off-the-shoulder hoop gown she'd found in the attic, greeted each guest with strings of beads, while Dixie, wearing peach-colored fairy wings, passed out velvet jester hats. Charlotte, who never quite grasped the concept of eating while sitting on the ground, had her driver bring a rocking chair from the front porch. Mr. Nalls set the chair beside Eli's statue where Charlotte barked orders like a general. "Don't put the food table under the oak tree!" she commanded, waving her arm. "We'll have acorns in the potato salad!" Lettie kept the glasses full and between KyAnn Merriweather and Dot Wyatt there was enough food to have fed Eli's entire regiment. Potato salad, coleslaw, deviled eggs, bread and butter pickles, green beans, fried corn, spiced pears, apple dumplings, and one of every animal species, pork barbecue, fried chicken, beef ribs, and cold country ham as far as the eye could see.

There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.” A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors. “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.” “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.” Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely… My dear Miss Farnum, Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence. St. Just He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down. “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.” “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene. “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay. “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.” “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, stroking the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie. “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?” “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?” “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.” “Did knights sleep in beds?” “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.” “I’ll ask Scout.” It

Traipsing the tunnels alone, the boys depended on the ponies for companionship; if their lamps went out, as they frequently did, a pony could guide them home. 'The ponies knew their way around their own district of the pit and could always find their way back to the pit bottom. They did this by travelling against the air which was being fed down the shaft,' Jim remembered. 'If you got caught in the dark, you grasped your pony's tail and tried to get your head just below the level of his back while he walked slowly - never offering to kick you - straight back to the pit bottom.

If we cut this now,” St. Just said, taking the pie from Val before Zeke was even halted, “we can destroy all the evidence before the infidels come back from the home farm. Sir Dewey and Darius are making an inspection of the pond and can help us dispose of the evidence. Ale goes with pie. Put up your pony, Valentine, and we’ll save you a little slice.” “I will tattle to Her Grace,” Val said, swinging down. “I traveled six miles in a sweltering heat, paid good coin, and carried that pie back with my own two hands.” “Traveling uphill both ways,” St. Just added solemnly, “with a scalding headwind. Last one to the pond is a virgin with a little pizzle.” “Pizzle,” Val muttered, loosening his horse’s girth. “I forgot pizzle. That makes thirteen.” “You’re daft, Valentine. A man doesn’t forget his pizzle.” St. Just spun on his heel and headed for the trail to the pond. When

This Blue Coat’s woman?” he demanded, gesturing toward Lily. Caleb shook his head. “She’s her own woman. Just ask her.” Lily’s heart was jammed into her throat. She had an urge to go for the rifle again, but this time it was Caleb she wanted to shoot. “He lies,” she said quickly, trying to make sign language. “I am too his woman!” The Indian looked back at his followers, and they all laughed. Lily thought she saw a hint of a grin curve Caleb’s lips as well but decided she must have imagined it. “You trade woman for two horses?” Caleb lifted one hand to his chin, considering. “Maybe. I’ve got to be honest with you. She’s a lot of trouble, this woman.” Lily’s terror was exceeded only by her wrath. “Caleb!” The Indian squinted at Lily and then made an abrupt, peevish gesture with the fingers of one hand. “He wants you to get down from the buggy so he can have a good look at you,” Caleb said quietly. “I don’t care what he wants,” Lily replied, folding her trembling hands in her lap and squaring her shoulders. The Indian shouted something. “He’s losing his patience,” Caleb warned, quite unnecessarily. Lily scrambled down from the buggy and stood a few feet from it while the Indian rode around her several times on his pony, making thoughtful grunting noises. Annoyance was beginning to overrule Lily’s better judgment. “This is my land,” she blurted out all of a sudden, “and I’m inviting you and your friends to get off it! Right now!” The Indian reined in his pony, staring at Lily in amazement. “You heard me!” she said, advancing on him, her hands poised on her hips. At that, Caleb came up behind her, and his arms closed around her like the sides of a giant manacle. His breath rushed past her ear. “Shut up!” Lily subsided, watching rage gather in the Indians’ faces like clouds in a stormy sky. “Caleb,” she said, “you’ve got to save me.” “Save you? If they raise their offer to three horses, you’ll be braiding your hair and wearing buckskin by nightfall.” The Indians were consulting with one another, casting occasional measuring glances in Lily’s direction. She was feeling desperate again. “All right, then, but remember, if I go, your child goes with me.” “You said you were bleeding.” Lily’s face colored. “You needn’t be so explicit. And I lied.” “Two horses,” Caleb bid in a cheerful, ringing voice. The Indians looked interested. “I’ll marry you!” Lily added breathlessly. “Promise?” “I promise.” “When?” “At Christmas.” “Not good enough.” “Next month, then.” “Today.” Lily assessed the Indians again, imagined herself carrying firewood for miles, doing wash in a stream, battling fleas in a tepee, being dragged to a pallet by a brave. “Today,” Lily conceded. The man in the best calico shirt rode forward again. “No trade,” he said angrily. “Blue Coat right—woman much trouble!” Caleb laughed. “Much, much trouble,” he agreed. “This Indian land,” the savage further insisted. With that, he gave a blood-curdling shriek, and he and his friends bolted off toward the hillside again. Lily turned to face Caleb. “I lied,” she said bluntly. “I have no intention of marrying you.” He brought his nose within an inch of hers. “You’re going back on your word?” “Yes,” Lily answered, turning away to climb back into the buggy. “I was trying to save myself. I would have said anything.” Caleb caught her by the arm and wrenched her around to face him. “And there’s no baby?” Lily lowered her eyes. “There’s no baby.” “I should have taken the two horses when they were offered to me,” Caleb grumbled, practically hurling her into the buggy. Lily

His head and beard wagged this way and that as he looked for the stones, and they followed his lead, but they seemed no nearer to the end of the search when the day began to fail. Tea-time had long gone by, and it seemed supper-time would soon do the same. There were moths fluttering about, and the light became very dim, for the moon had not risen. Bilbo’s pony began to stumble over roots and stones. They came to the edge of a steep fall in the ground so suddenly that Gandalf’s horse nearly slipped down the slope.

Loretta couldn’t concentrate on the game long enough to figure out its rules. She had eyes only for Red Buffalo. He had joined Warrior’s family for the evening and was displaying a jovial, gentle side that Loretta could not believe. Pony Girl, Warrior’s two-year-old orphaned niece, climbed all over Red Buffalo, using his braids for handholds, squeezing his neck from behind until his face turned red, tickling him when he ignored her to concentrate on the game. The warrior put up with her antics, his hands always gentle when he disengaged his hair from her clutches. Loretta could scarcely believe her eyes. When Maiden of the Tall Grass picked up the dice, Red Buffalo said something to her, and she gave an outraged squeal, elbowing him in the ribs. Red Buffalo laughed and grabbed her braids, looping them into a knot beneath her chin. She rolled her beautiful eyes and shook the dice, tossing them with a flourish. Red Buffalo leaned forward to see what she had thrown, then groaned and thumped his brow with the heel of his hand. Warrior threw back his head and roared with laughter. Turtle, who at the advanced age of five had been allowed to play, began to pout. The game was over, and Maiden of the Tall Grass had clearly trounced the men. She unlooped her braids and swept them over her shoulders, a smug expression on her face. The gesture reminded Loretta of Amy, but then, these days, everything did. As she watched this family interact, the only differences she could detect between them and white people were their dress and language. Indeed, they seemed happier and more content.

So you'd let me do whatever I wanted?" I shrugged. "Like, literally anything? You'd let me pee on you?" "You wouldn't, but no." "You'd let me parade you around downtown naked? Force-feed you into Type II Diabetes? Give you a bit gag and a pony-tail plug and make you pull me around in a rickshaw?" "No. No. None of those things." I shook my head. "Your brain is a weird place." "Real people do that stuff, Talia. Just because their kinks aren't your kinks doesn't mean they're weird or gross or wrong.

Frightened and horribly frustrated, Loretta sank onto a rock and hugged her knees. Think. Amy’s life depended on it. And so did hers. Lost. The word dripped into her mind, as cold as melt-off ice. Hunter had made it look easy, but he was a Comanche. She was a stupid tosi tivo. How could she hope to track Comanches out here when some of the finest scouts in the country had failed? Loretta sighed and stood up. She couldn’t turn back. The Comancheros had Amy. To admit defeat would be like signing Amy’s life away. Friend had wandered to the far side of the water hole, grazing. Loretta circled the pool to fetch him. She had walked perhaps thirty feet when she glanced down. The earth on this side of the pool was torn up with hoof marks. Unshod horses had been here. One of the prints was achingly familiar, a notched crescent. “They were here!” she screeched. Friend lifted his head and fastened bewildered brown eyes on her. Loretta started to laugh. She wasn’t just any stupid tosi tivo. She was a stupid tosi tivo on a perfectly wonderful Comanche pony. She ran her hands into her hair and closed her eyes, letting the fear flow out of her. Hunter would never have told her to come to him if he hadn’t believed she could find him. Between her and Friend, they would make it. Loretta mounted up, no longer feeling so horribly alone. As crazy as it was, she felt as if Hunter rode beside her.

Red Buffalo emerged from the darkness, leading his favorite war pony. Loretta and Hunter, arms looped around one another, turned to face him. When Red Buffalo reached Loretta, he grasped her hand and curled her fingers around the horse’s line. “Red Buffalo, I can’t take your war pony!” This horse, she knew, was Red Buffalo’s most prized possession, precision trained, his greatest edge when he rode into battle. It was a great honor he was bestowing upon her, perhaps the greatest honor a warrior could bestow on anyone, but she couldn’t in good conscience accept. “Please, keep your horse.” “My cousin’s fine Comanche wife must have a fine horse to carry her. You will never make it into the west lands on a scrawny, poorly trained tosi tivo horse.” Red Buffalo extended his hand to her. In friendship. She had vowed once that she would never take his hand in friendship, never. For a moment she hesitated. Then the last hard little knot of hatred within her disintegrated, and she placed her palm across his. Loretta knew that her mother would approve. For Loretta and Hunter, the war between their people had to end. There was no room for the past in their lives, no room for bitterness. Red Buffalo smiled, inclined his head to Hunter, and turned to leave. “Red Buffalo, would you give Swift Antelope a message for me? Tell him Amy hasn’t forgotten her promise, that she’ll wait for him.” Red Buffalo lifted his arm in farewell. “I will tell him.

You do not lie so good, Yellow Hair. Your eyes make big talk against you. But that is okay. We have had this one moment together, no? And you did not spit.” Chuckling, he ducked his head and tightened his arm around her with such crushing strength that she couldn’t breathe, let alone fight. Then he wheeled his horse, yelling gibberish. The young man who held Amy nudged his pony out of the ranks and galloped it toward the house. In a skid of hooves and flying dust, he dumped her none too gently onto the dirt and rode off. Amy scrambled to her feet, holding out her arms. “Loretta, no…Loretta, please…” To Loretta’s relief, Rachel burst out of the cabin, grabbed Amy, and dragged her up the steps. After shoving the child through the door, she reappeared with a rifle in her hands. Lifting the stock to her shoulder, she took careful aim. At Loretta… It happened so fast that even the Comanche was taken by surprise. His body snapped taut. For the space of a heartbeat, Loretta felt a shattering sense of betrayal, of fear. Then she understood. Aunt Rachel was going to kill her rather than see her taken by Comanches. The blast of the gun and a roar from the Comanche came almost simultaneously. He threw his body forward, slamming Loretta against the stallion’s neck. Pain exploded in her chest, a flattening, mind-searing pain. Insane as it was, the thought crossed her mind that the Comanche hadn’t won after all. The stallion reared, striking the air, then leaped forward, nearly tossing both his riders. Loretta was squashed between the long ridge of the animal’s neck and the Comanche’s chest. Sitting sideways as she was, her body was twisted at an impossible angle. Instinctively she clutched the horse’s mane to hold her seat. She was going to fall. The hooves of the other horses thundered all around her. If she lost her grip, the other riders would surely trample her. Desperation filled her. She was slipping. At the last moment, when her fingers lost their hold and she felt herself falling, her captor’s arm clamped around her ribs, pulling her back onto the horse. Then the weight of his chest anchored her, so heavy she couldn’t breathe. Wind blew against her face. Slack-jawed, she labored for air, pressure building to a pulsating intensity in her temples. The Indians rode a safe distance from the house before stopping. When Hunter finally drew rein and leaped off the horse, Loretta fell with him and landed in a heap at his feet. Dust plumed around her. Men dismounted, yelling, running in her direction. For a moment she thought they were going to swoop down on her, but they circled her captor instead, jabbering and touching his shoulder. There were so many legs, some naked. Brown buttocks flashed everywhere she looked. Hunter snarled something and peeled off his shirt. A furrowed flesh wound angled across his right shoulder. Pressing a hand to her chest, Loretta glanced down in bewilderment. She had been so sure…Laughter bubbled up her throat. Aunt Rachel had missed? She never missed when she could draw a steady bead on a still target. Loretta’s throat tightened. The Comanche. She looked up, confusion clouding her blue eyes. He had shielded her with his own body?

Hunter found Warrior down by the river, teaching Pony Girl to swim. Sitting beneath a cottonwood, Hunter pressed his back to the trunk and rested his forearm on his upraised knee. “Warrior, I must make a short trip,” he began. “Will you watch my woman and her sister while I’m gone?” Distracted by the question, Warrior forgot to watch his niece and turned. “Another trip? You’ve only just returned.” Hunter’s gaze dropped to Pony Girl, and his eyes widened in alarm. Shooting to his feet, he yelled, “Warrior, she’s going under!” Warrior snatched a handful of the child’s dripping hair and pulled her up for air. Giving his head a shake, he moved toward shore. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s too young. Maiden insists she isn’t, but I don’t recall the other two being this hard to teach.” “I taught Turtle, and Maiden taught Blackbird,” Hunter reminded him. Warrior squatted in front of the whining, coughing child, trying to comfort her with body-shaking pats on her lower back. Hunter thanked the Great Ones that Pony Girl’s burns had healed. “Maybe that’s what the problem is, eh?” Warrior mused. “I’m a lousy teacher. Hunter, why don’t you teach her?” “I’m leaving on a journey.” “Ah, yes, a journey. Where are you going?” Hunter ignored the question. It was one thing to surrender to his woman, but quite another to admit it to his brother. “Maybe I’ll teach her when I return. A swap, yes?” Warrior looked relieved. “That sounds like a fair trade. I’ll gladly watch your woman if I can get out of this swimming chore Maiden has pressed upon me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll have to change this one’s name to Pebble. She sure enough sinks like one.

Why was this ridiculous-looking man barging into the middle of the arena, yelling his head off and swinging a golf club like some kind of maniac?

The children hadn't any Mamma. She had died when Phil was a baby, four years before my story began. Katy could remember her pretty well; to the rest she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on Sunday, and at prayer-times, or when Papa was especially gentle and solemn. In place of this Mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was Aunt Izzie, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mamma went away on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzie was a small woman, sharp-faced and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child. Aunt Izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as Curly Locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl; whereas Katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button about being called "good," while Clover and Elsie shied off like restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. It was very perplexing to Aunt Izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys and girls in Sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she liked best, and understood most about.

The fleabitten grey mare's short legs are slightly over at the knee, she has a Roman nose and a neck of solid muscle well-practiced at pulling her rider out of the saddle. Her head is up and a layer of sweat darkens her pale shoulders, but Alec’s holding his reins tight and he’s maintaining control. All the riders who have gone before on beautifully turned out, well-schooled ponies were merely passengers as their ponies jumped. Alec has harnessed the raw talent of his mare, her power barely held in check as the bell rings and he canters her around towards the first jump. Jess strains against the martingale as she charges towards the first fence and with one strong push off her hocks, flies over the jump with her knees tucked into her chest.

He’s probably never ridden a horse in his life. He’s likely never experienced that moment of euphoria when you and an animal move completely as one, the indescribable sensation of grace and power running through your bones and settling forever in your heart. He probably won’t have felt a pony’s warm breath on his neck on a cold winter’s morning, or run his hand proudly across the soft sheen of a well-groomed coat. And he’s surely never rested his head against a pony’s warm neck, wrapped his arms around it and closed his eyes, and held on tightly to the one thing in his life that would stay solid and constant and true. So he couldn’t understand, not really, but I did.

Among Amex’s rivals in the luxury space is Quintessentially Group, a members-only concierge network with offices in fifty countries. Quintessentially promises incredible access for its global clientele, which includes, its founders have claimed, hundreds of billionaires and thousands of hundred-millionaires. (Virgin Atlantic’s Richard Branson, rapper P. Diddy, Madonna, and author J. K. Rowling have reportedly been among its clients.) Want a last-minute table at Noma in Copenhagen on a Saturday night? No problem. A private performance by Elton John? Done that. A safe driver to pick up your kids from boarding school in a clutch and deliver them to your vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard? Say the word. Polo lessons from an actual pro? Ask Catherine Mills, head of equestrian services, whose duties have ranged from sourcing a top-notch steed for an international competition to showing up at a children’s garden party in central London with a bunch of ponies “and walking them through the front door.

It was an amazing vision. Few stretches of Central Europe have been the theatre for so much history. Beyond which watershed lay the pass where Hannibal's elephants had slithered downhill? Only a few miles away, the frontier of the Roman Empire had begun. Deep in those mythical forests that the river reflected for many days' march, the German tribes, Rome's Nemesis, had waited for their hour to strike. The Roman limes followed the river's southern bank all the way to the Black Sea. The same valley, functioning in reverse, funneled half the barbarians of Asia into Central Europe and just below my eyrie, heading upstream, the Huns entered and left again before swimming their ponies across the Rhine - or trotting them over the ice - until, foiled by a miracle, they drew rein a little short of Paris. Charlemagne stalked across the corner of his empire to destroy the Avars in Pannonia and a few leagues southwest, the ruins of Hohenstaufen, home of the family that plunged Emperors and Popes into centuries of vendetta, crumbled still.

He had seen dogs and ponies feverishly coupling with bored young girls, and overfed women with rats and mice crawling across their brown bare skin, and felt nothing; but at the sight of vertebrae pushing against the back of her neck, pushing between her perfectly symmetrical shoulder blades as she inclined her head forward, brow furrowed, his mouth went dry, and he felt the planet sliding beneath his feet.

Great Dane the size of a pony, and a girl with a rat terrier the size of the Great Dane’s head. Overall I preferred the rat terrier. Small dog, big personality. The little guy thought he was boss of the world.

It’s a deep, rich laugh that makes me want to pull the car off the road and climb him like a grocery store pony. “Dammit,” he says, still laughing and shaking his head.

Lovely One" Lovely one, just as on the cool stone of the spring, the water opens a wide flash of foam, so is the smile of your face, lovely one. Lovely one, with delicate hands and slender feet like a silver pony, walking, flower of the world, thus I see you, lovely one. Lovely one, with a nest of copper entangled on your head, a nest the color of dark honey where my heart burns and rests, lovely one. Lovely one, your eyes are too big for your face, your eyes are too big for the earth. There are countries, there are rivers, in your eyes, my country is your eyes, I walk through them, they light the world through which I walk, lovely one. Lovely one, your breasts are like two loaves made of grainy earth and golden moon, lovely one. Lovely one, your waist, my arm shaped it like a river when it flowed a thousand years through your sweet body, lovely one. Lovely one, there is nothing like your hips, perhaps earth has in some hidden place the curve and the fragrance of your body, perhaps in some place, lovely one. Lovely one, my lovely one, your voice, your skin, your nails, lovely one, my lovely one, your being, your light, your shadow, lovely one, all that is mine, lovely one, all that is mine, my dear, when you walk or rest, when you sing or sleep, when you suffer or dream, always, when you are near or far, always, you are mine, my lovely one, always.

I’d be mortified at getting stuck down in a sexy squat. Absolutely mortified. I give Paige huge points for coming up laughing even louder, and exclaiming to Kendra, who’s come over too: “Ken! Didja see? I dropped it but I couldn’t pop it! Ha! I couldn’t pop it!” She’s howling with laughter, her head thrown back, her blond curls tumbling everywhere. “I dropped it!” she yells. “But I couldn’t pop it!” “Ma cosa dice?” Sebastiano says to me. “What does she say?” I look at him helplessly. “I can’t explain,” I say finally. So I throw my hands wide in apology for not being able to translate, and start dancing again, only to stop a moment later as Paige yells: “Oh! Em! Gee! I am sooo out of it!” She’s pointing at Golia, the donkey. “I’m, like, seeing things! I thought you were supposed to see pink elephants--I’m, like, seeing a horse! No, it’s a pony! My Little Pony! Cool! Is anyone else seeing a--” “I think it’s time we took her home,” Kendra says dryly to Leonardo.

Did you get Paige to bed okay?” “Yes and no,” Kendra says quietly, coming down the steps to the parking lot. Andrea’s following on her heels like an obedient dog. “We got her upstairs, but she was all messed up and crying about the pony not being pink, and she woke up Catia.” “Bollocks,” I say, with feeling. “What is ‘bollocks’?” Luca asks, sounding very interested. “Never mind,” I say firmly to him. “We have to have a meeting tomorrow morning after breakfast,” Kendra says gloomily. “To set new house rules.” “Oh no,” I sigh. “Yup. We should go to bed now. I don’t think Catia really cares that much.” Kendra adds cynically, “She’s just going through the motions. But, you know, we shouldn’t look like we’re--” “Taking the piss,” I finish. “Taking the piss?” Luca echoes, his accent so funny that I stifle a giggle. Not quite well enough; he hears it and aims a playful smack to the back of my head, which I dodge with another giggle. That’s the thing about Luca. One moment we’re teaching each other, then we’re kissing, then we’re fighting, or being serious. And it can change so fast, it’s dizzying. No wonder I don’t feel in control of anything when I’m with him. And honestly, cool as he seems, I don’t know if he’s any more in control of what’s between us than I am.

Come out, White-Eyes,” the voice called. “I bring gifts, not bloodshed.” Henry, wearing nothing but his pants and the bandages Aunt Rachel had wrapped around his chest the night before, hopped on one foot as he dragged on a boot. By the time he reached the window, he had both boots on, laces flapping. Rachel gave him a rifle. He threw open the shutter and jerked down the skin, shoving the barrel out the opening. “What brings you here?” “The woman. I bring many horses in trade.” Loretta ran to the left window, throwing back the shutters and unfastening the membrane to peek out. The Comanche turned to meet her gaze, his dark eyes expressionless, penetrating, all the more luminous from the black graphite that outlined them. Her hands tightened on the rough sill, nails digging the wood. He looked magnificent. Even she had to admit that. Savage, frightening…but strangely beautiful. Eagle feathers waved from the crown of his head, the painted tips pointed downward, the quills fastened in the slender braid that hung in front of his left ear. His cream-colored hunting shirt enhanced the breadth of his shoulders, the chest decorated with intricate beadwork, painted animal claws, and white strips of fur. He wore two necklaces, one of bear claws, the other a flat stone medallion, both strung on strips of rawhide. His buckskin breeches were tucked into knee-high moccasins. Her gaze shifted to the strings of riderless ponies behind him. She couldn’t believe their number. Thirty? Possibly forty? Beyond the animals were at least sixty half-naked warriors on horseback. Loretta wondered why Hunter had come fully clothed in all his finery with wolf rings painted around his eyes. The others wore no shirts or feathers, and their faces were bare. “I come for the woman,” the Comanche repeated, never taking his gaze from her. “And I bring my finest horses to console her father for his loss. Fifty, all trained to ride.” His black sidestepped and whinnied. The Indian swayed easily with his mount. “Send me the woman, and have no fear. She will come to no harm walking in my footsteps, for I am strong and swift. She will never feel hunger, for I am a fine hunter. My lodge will shelter her from the winter rain, and my buffalo robes will shield her from the cold. I have spoken it.

The Comanche rode in a wide circle around the frightened, riderless horses and tossed Amy into the arms of a fellow Indian who waited in the ranks. The little girl’s indignant screeching filled the air. Loretta lifted the Spencer carbine to her shoulder, leveling the sights on the Comanche as he circled back to her. The bells on his moccasins tinkled merrily with each movement of his horse. “Let me go!” Amy screamed. “You stinkin’ savage.” Loretta glanced toward the child. A young brave struggled to keep Amy atop his pony. He laughed uproariously when she tried to scratch him. The girl caught a handful of his black hair and pulled with all her might. “Ai-ee!” the boy exclaimed. “She tries to take my scalp.” Whoops of laughter spiraled among the men. Loretta dragged her gaze back to Hunter. He had halted his mount some fifteen feet from her. “Where will you spend your cartridge?” he asked. “If you love her, shoot her. It is wisdom.” Amy’s screaming turned to pitiful sobbing. Loretta’s aim wavered, and she glanced toward the other Indians, trying to see her cousin. What was Henry doing? Why didn’t he back her up? How long could it take to load a rifle? The miserable coward. “You have time for one shot,” Hunter went on. “If you waste it on me, my friend will take your sister and avenge me. Your father hides behind his wooden walls. You stand alone.” Sweat ran into Loretta’s eyes. She turned slightly and leveled the barrel of her gun at Amy. Blinking, she snugged her finger around the trigger. Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled Amy’s queries about blessed release. It’s something bad, isn’t it? It’s killing yourself, isn’t it? Not always, Loretta thought. Sometimes it was death by a loved one’s hand. “Think long on this, Yellow Hair,” Hunter cautioned. “I came in peace to buy a woman, not steal a child. She is too skinny to bring this Comanche pleasure. You are not.” He leaned forward, stretching an arm along his horse’s neck, his hand open to her. “Come to me, and I will send your sister back to her mother unharmed.” Loretta stared at him. Did he mean it? His eyes pierced hers. The scar on the side of his face flickered as his jaw muscle tightened. If the tales about him were true, he might spare Amy. On the other hand, he might take them both captive if given half a chance. She remembered how gently he had touched her last night, and her confusion mounted. “Drop the weapon and come,” he urged. “It is a fair trade, no? She goes free. I have spoken it.” In the background, Loretta heard laughter ringing. Already the braves made sport of Amy. The child screeched again. “You will do this, no? You have courage. It shines in your eyes. If you fight the big fight, you cannot win. It is best to hold the head high and surrender with dignity. Put down the gun.

If he got his hands on her, if he licked and tasted her again, she’d be lost. Lost. With a capital L and a lowercase I will mount you like a pony. Which, now sounded a little weird in her head and she refused to latch onto the imagery.

You really married to an Indian?" The woman's curiosity, once released, was unquenchable. "I am married to a man." Lily slapped the bolt on the counter. "Let me see your threads and buttons." When Lily finally left with her purchases, Cade was leaning against the storefront, hands in pockets, watching Roy lead Serena around on his pony. At Lily's appearance, he stood up and grabbed the packages. In doing so, he bent near her ear and whispered, "A man, Lily?" "A stupid one," she responded, sticking her nose up and heading for the wagon. "Not as stupid as Clark. I didn't let you go." Undaunted, Cade flung the packages in the wagon and helped Lily up. "Ollie isn't dumb. He's a coward. He lost Miss Bridgewater because he was terrified to court her. She married a lesser man out of desperation. I cannot imagine how he found the gumption to come out and visit me the few times he did." Cade had a thought or two on that himself, but he had as yet been unable to confirm them. Whistling to himself, he disregarded Lily's insult and allowed the balm of her approval to ease an earlier pain.

The entire theater faded away, as did the whispers, titters, and if she wasn’t much mistaken, applause, as Bram continued kissing her before he drew back, cupped her face with his hands, and smiled. It was a wonderful smile, filled with love, hope, and maybe even, a dash of naughtiness and danger. “That’ll keep everyone talking for a while,” he said with a wink. “I’m sure it will, and . . . now that we’ve gotten ourselves engaged, I, my soon-to-be husband, have a scene to finish.” Bram turned his head and whistled, the whistle resulting in Sweet Pea being led onto the stage, pulling her pony cart. “That’s why I brought a horse.” “Sweet Pea is a mule, but even if she was a horse, there’s not a horse in The Lady of the Tower—which you know since you penned the play.” “True, but I brought Sweet Pea along because of the scene in my new novel, the scene where you cut me down, then hoist me over your horse’s back, and then we go galloping off into the night.” “I’m not sure if a heroine will actually have the strength needed to hoist the hero onto a horse, and . . . again, you brought Sweet Pea and a pony cart, so . . . I’m not exactly certain how I should proceed.” “I tried to bring Storm, but Ernie pointed out that if Storm doesn’t like graveyards he probably wouldn’t like the theater, and that’s when Ernie offered to loan me Sweet Pea, and . . . maybe I should just climb in the cart and you can join me.” With that, Bram took hold of her hand, stepped into the pony cart, pulled her in after him, and pulled her onto his lap as he settled against the seat. Picking up the reins, he gave them a flick, and Sweet Pea was off, prancing as she was wont to do across the stage, down the ramp, and straight out the back door that Mr. Skukman was already holding open for them. As they rode away into the night, with Bram’s arms wrapped tightly around her, Lucetta realized that Abigail had been right all along. Bram