Once a Father. Kathleen Eagle

I’ve got applications from as far away as…” Sally snatched a paper from one of three wire baskets—red, gray and green—on the corner of her desk. She adjusted her glasses and focused on the top of the page. “Here’s one from New York. Now that’s a different world. She says she lives on a reservation. Are there real Indians in New York?”

      “All kinds,” Logan said.

      “Good. I want all kinds of distribution. Geographical, cultural, economic, the whole barbecued enchilada. Nothing like wild horses to drag in all kinds.” Sally shot Mary a suggestive look. “Maybe they can drag you back from Texas on weekends.”

      “That wouldn’t make a lot of sense.” She had to hear herself say the sensible thing. One crazy indulgence—possible indulgence—was one more than her limit. “But right now.. just so we’re clear…”

      “Like the woman said,” Logan put in. “About those rules.”

      “There are rules, and then there are…considerations.” Sally tossed the New York application aside. “I’m working with Max Becker out of the Bureau of Land Management’s Wyoming office. He’s the wild horse specialist there, and he helped me get the competition approved. We worked together on the application you both filled out. We don’t want anyone crying foul and giving wild horse and burro protection a black eye. Any more budget cuts and the program will go from a shoestring to a single-thread operation.”

      “If we don’t qualify, we don’t qualify,” Mary said.

      “Separately you don’t qualify. But I don’t have a problem with the entrant getting help from an experienced trainer.” Sally turned her eyeball-to-eyeball considerations from Mary to Logan. “And there’s no reason the trainer can’t be on the Tribal Council.”

      “Are you making this stuff up as you go along?” Logan sounded more bemused than troubled.

      “When we get into the gray areas I’m making most of the calls. Max is pretty busy. Plus…” Sally gestured toward the baskets. “…qualified applications aren’t exactly flooding in. See, these are my ‘In’ boxes.”

      They were labeled “Ifs,” “Ands” and “Buts.”

      “Which ones have been rejected?” Mary asked.

      “Those.” Sally pointed to a metal trash can. “What does the army call ‘File Thirteen'?”

      “They don’t even get a rejection letter?”

      “Annie’s handling that end of it. She writes such nice letters, we even get donations back from some of the rejects.”

      “I haven’t gotten any letter,” Mary told Logan. “Have you?”

      He shook his head. “Must be in the ‘But’ pile.”

      “You’re both ‘Ifs.‘ Together you could move from gray to green.” The look in Sally’s eyes went from that of woman on top to woman in love. Mary and Logan turned to see the cause.

      Hank Night Horse stood in the doorway ready with a handshake for each. Mary’s came with a cowboy salute—touch of a finger to the brim of the hat—and Logan got a slap on his shoulder. “How’s it goin',

      Track Man?”

      “Have you figured this woman out yet?” Logan asked jovially. “Which box are you in?”

      Hank and Sally exchanged affectionate glances.

      “No conflict of interest there,” Logan said to Mary. “No ‘ifs', ‘ands’ or ‘buts’ about it.” Mary stepped to one side.

      “Just so we’re clear, I’m not competing. I’ve got my hands full right now.” And to prove it Hank crossed the room, planted himself on the window seat behind his woman and rested his big hands on her slight shoulders. “But this guy’s the best there is, Sally. He’ll have his horse telling jokes while you clear the ring for the next contestant.”

      “I don’t do stunts,” Logan said. “A horse is a horse.”

      “Of course, of course!” Sally chimed in. Giddiness looked good on her. “And I want you to do what you do so well. I want this competition to generate some wonderful stories. Like the one about the Lakota horseman and the warrior woman. That’s going straight to Horse Lover’s Journal”

      “Warrior woman,” Mary echoed with a chuckle. “I guess that’s better than ‘dog soldier.'”

      “Why?” Hank asked. “Dog soldiers were the Cheyenne’s best warriors. Just lately they started up again. My sister got married to one, up in Montana. Anybody calls you a dog soldier, you take it as a compliment.”

      “I do. I’m good at my job, too, and I prefer ‘dog soldier’ to ‘dogface’ but canine specialist has a better ring to it.”

      “You don’t wanna be called a whisperer?” Logan asked. “Everybody’s whispering these days.”

      “Got that, cowboy?” Sally slid Hank a playful smile. “You whisper, I purr.”

      “I know.”

      “Sweet,” Logan teased. “Rumor has it he can sing pretty good, too.” “I know,” Sally said.

      Mary looked at Logan and cocked an eyebrow. “You get the feeling we’re in the way here?”

      “I’ll get out of the way when I get what I came for,” he said. “You sign up for the horse, you got yourself a trainer.”

      She glanced at Sally, who beamed back at her. Beaming you up, old chum. They’d spent precious little time together since Mary had enlisted, but the years fell away instantly because Sally was…Sally.

      No more sidestepping. No looking down. There was only the man at her side and the chance at hand. She looked him in the eye. “What’s this gonna cost me?”

      “A fair share of the prize.”

      “How much of a share?”

      “Depends on what you contribute time- and effort-wise. You gonna pony up, Sergeant?”

      With the help of some army training, Mary had learned to welcome a good challenge, especially when it came from a worthy challenger. “Half,” she said. “Half is fair, and we split the expenses down the middle, win or lose.”

      “We can’t lose. This is one of those win-win deals like you read about. Who’s gonna write the story?”

      “Which…?” Sally was so deep into their game she was practically falling out of her chair. The look of a sidelines fan suddenly hit with the ball earned her a laugh. Sally being Sally, she took it in stride. “Oh, we’re gonna have all kinds of stories. That’s the whole point. We need to get the word out about these horses.” She glanced toward the door and smiled. “I think I’ll put Annie in charge of that little detail.”

      “What little de—Mary!” Sally’s younger sister surged into the room and greeted Mary with a hug. “Are you home for good? Stateside, at least? My God, you look wonderful.”

      “So do you.” Smaller. Happier. How long had it been—five or six years? Oh, the nicknames she and Sally had hung on little Annie when they were kids. Chubby Cheeks. Mary glanced at the tall, dark and handsome cowboy trailing “Cheekers” and gave herself points for not blurting that one out. “This must be your new husband. Congratulations. I’m Mary Tutan.”

      Zach Beaudry offered a tentative hand. “Tutan? As in…”

      “As in Damn Tootin’s daughter.”

      “And my best friend forever,” Sally said emphatically. “Dan Tutan has nothing to say about that.”

      “Oh, he has plenty to say. He’s a difficult man, my father. Nobody knows that better than I do.” Mary