PART THREE

On the Road

LOCUSTS

It took a long time for us to ride to West Virginia, which made it seem almost funny how soon we crossed the narrow northern panhandle and out of the state. We traveled into Ohio and followed “Old 40” up and down hilly streets in St. Clairsville.

I called Mike from one of the first places we stayed in Ohio. Right from the beginning our conversation had an awkward quality to it: I talked about traveling and weather and a few of the people we had met. He described the furniture he’d picked out for his house. How many male egos would not be aware of how different our relationship had already become?

I noticed a strange hum or clacking sound as we made our way through the state. When a young couple approached and said hello, inquiring if they could pat Rainy, I asked them about it.

“It’s the seventeen-year locusts,” the woman answered nonchalantly.

Maybe people in Ohio were used to it, but the noise had me on edge.

We rode along old strip-mine roads that wound around mild hills. I got off and walked often. I could hear the locusts grow louder as we passed under the trees where they gathered. Occasionally, one bumped into my face, or into Rainy, causing him to shake his head and stomp his feet in frustration. I heard crunch crunch as Rainy’s hooves landed on the shells that littered the road.

We picked up the pace a little, all three of us seeming to want to get through the area as quickly as possible. Seventeen years, and the locusts had to hatch the year we were passing through.

It was seventeen years too soon, if you asked me.

BRAD

The town of Hendrysburg, Ohio, was just a smattering of houses all lined up; a closed store, a church, and a bait shop sat where the old road became Main Street in the little village.

As we neared the town center, I could see a figure in the middle of the road up ahead. Rainy saw it too—the unfamiliar shape and the way the shadow formed on the street had my horse on alert. He raised his head, ears forward and nostrils flaring. I took up the usual slack in the reins as a whirring noise became audible.

Coming toward us, moving slowly, was a huddled figure in a motorized wheelchair. We approached each other like duelists in an old Western town.

I brought Rainy to a halt, and we watched the guy maneuver the chair around until he was alongside us and we were all facing the same direction. After a few snorts, the always unflappable Rainy settled, and Gypsy wagged her tail as soon as the fellow in the chair started to speak.

“My name is Brad,” he announced.

Brad had come to escort us through Hendrysburg as we made our way to the barn a few miles west of town where Rainy, Gypsy, and I were staying the night. He admitted he’d been watching for us all afternoon, slowly going up and down the quiet Main Street.

“This is what I do every day,” he said with a shrug. “Today you were something different to watch for.”

Brad and I discovered we were the same age, and he told me he used to ride horses, too, before he was paralyzed in a car accident when he was seventeen. This hit me hard; I simply couldn’t imagine what he’d been through. I wanted to ask him about it, but he changed the subject quickly.

Brad’s head was tilted toward one shoulder, but I could see him give Rainy a once over with his eyes.

“Quarter Horse?” he asked.

“Yup,” I answered.

“That’s our breed, too,” he told me. “Everyone used to get together and rodeo a little on the weekends around here.” I didn’t know what to say; I thought about how he must miss that.

Rainy, having accepted the wheelchair, slowed his pace to keep Brad abreast of us. We made a strange procession as we walked through Hendrysburg: me, my steady horse, Gypsy, and Brad in his motorized wheelchair. Like a small parade, we passed by a woman in gardening gloves who looked up from her planting and waved hello. A few children yelled, “Hi, Brad!” and one small kid ran up with a hopeful look, but Brad shook his head. “No rides today, buddy,” he said. I could tell by the exchanges that Brad had made his Main Street routine a bright spot in his day. I could see the smile reach his eyes when he talked.

Soon we were at the western edge of town where I would keep going and where Brad would not. I thought about how all the next days, and the days after that, as I rode westward, Brad would be riding up and down the empty Main Street, waving hello to whomever was out, and then stopping at the edge of town and doing it all over again.

We stopped, and sat quietly for a minute, facing west. Then Brad and I said goodbye. Rainy, Gypsy, and I headed off slowly. I turned in the saddle to wave, but Brad had already started back on his route. I could still hear the whirring noise, growing faint. He did not watch us ride away.

DANGER ON THE ROAD

In this southern part of Ohio, the sun was always shining, the grass was green, and corn was growing everywhere. I enjoyed the sun on my shoulders and feeling the roll of Rainy’s gait in sync with the way the land rolled on in front of us. Gypsy was slung across the front of the saddle—although Route 22 was pleasant, it’s a busy thoroughfare. I sang as we walked along, lulled into a hazy, daydreaming frame of mind.

Out of nowhere, a massive eighteen-wheel semi suddenly topped a rise in the road behind us, frighteningly close. The driver, no doubt surprised to find himself bearing down on a horse on the shoulder of the road, laid on the truck’s air horn and hit the brakes with a deafening hiss.

The surprise and the noise was more than even solid Rainy could handle. He leaped forward in fear and bolted into the road, panicking as the truck bore down on us. He galloped wildly, the packs flapping against his sides, and his feet pounding the hard surface of the pavement. Gypsy started to slide off the side of the saddle as everything went off balance. I desperately hung on to my dog with one hand while struggling with the reins, and trying not to think about the massive truck right behind us.

Rainy suddenly turned on his haunches, jumping the roadside ditch. How Gypsy and I stayed on I don’t know. My mind felt frozen—This could be the end of us. I could only focus on keeping a grip on Gypsy and staying in the saddle as Rainy continued his fear-filled race into the grassy roadside field. Precariously tipping, the stirrups lost, I summoned all the strength I could muster and somehow pulled my runaway horse into a circle, where he dropped to a trot, and finally a walk and shaky halt. Still tightly holding poor Gypsy with one arm, I slid down out of the saddle, limp from fear and adrenaline, and leaned against my trembling horse’s neck. My legs were weak—I didn’t know if they would hold me. Rainy’s sides were heaving and rivulets of sweat ran down his barrel and haunches from beneath my gear.

I could see the big truck stopped on the road, pulled over to the shoulder, along with several other cars, near the place Rainy had made his wild run and leap to safety. Seeing I now had my horse under control, the truck driver who had started it all got back in his rig and pulled away. But a woman from one of the other cars walked toward us.

“You okay?” she asked with concern as she drew near. I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice just yet. “Take deep breaths,” the woman said soothingly, taking Gypsy’s leash from my hand and gently rubbing my back. Still not speaking, I turned and began to check Rainy all over. His breathing had slowed—a good sign.

“My name is Jesse Walker,” the kind woman said as I finished running my hands down the buckskin’s legs, thankful he seemed to have come through the ordeal unscathed. “Wait here a minute.”

Gypsy trotted along beside Jesse as the woman went back to her car and leaned against the hood for a minute, drawing something. She returned with a sketch of a map of side roads that would get us off Route 22, and then she pointed to an intersection she’d circled. “Here’s where we can meet at the end of the day,” she told me matter-of-factly. “I’ll bring this sweet dog and your packs to you there.”

I didn’t question the arrangement Jesse proposed. I just let myself trust her, watching as most of my stuff and Gypsy rode away in her car. I stood with Rainy for a bit longer, again leaning my head against his neck. He was calm enough now to nibble at the grass.

I thought about the saying: There are no strangers, only friends I haven’t met yet. Jesse Walker set aside her life for a moment in order to help me. It was this kindness of a stranger that got me back up in the saddle.

GOODMANS

Once in a while, you meet someone, and there’s an instant connection. I was lucky to experience that when I stayed with Butch and Nancy Goodman. After they showed me where Rainy could be settled for the night in their spacious barn, Butch and Nancy had pizza delivered. Nancy, Gypsy, and I sat on the floor, pizza boxes open beside us, long after Butch got tired and went to bed. Nancy shared stories about the first time she traveled alone and asked to see the pictures I carried of Mike and my family. She and I talked so late into the night that I spent an extra day with them…just to rest!

When I woke up late the next morning, I hurried to get to Rainy. I wasn’t used to sleeping in these days, and I was supposed to meet a local reporter at the Goodmans’ barn. Rainy’s nicker greeted us when we walked in. There was something about that sound that made me happy.

That evening, I accompanied the Goodmans to a local horse show. Trucks and trailers filled the parking lot of the show grounds; wooden bleachers filled with people. Butch, along with his sons, Greg and Jeff, competed in barrel racing and other timed events. Butch was in his element in the friendly show atmosphere—he knew everyone at the event, and everyone knew him. He kept stopping and introducing me to people, bragging about how I’d ridden my horse from New York all by myself. Gypsy stood patiently beside me as I shook hands with dozens of people.

Then I heard my name over the loudspeaker.

“We have a special guest with us tonight, folks,” echoed the deep voice across the big arena. “Her name is Missy Priblo, and she’s ridden her horse here all the way from New York!”

I heard some scattered claps and a few whistles. Then the announcer continued: “Let’s give Missy a big loud welcome because tonight is going to be her first speed event ever!”

I looked at Nancy helplessly as Butch dragged me out to the middle of the ring and grasped my hand in his, raising it high, while his other hand pumped the air like he was Rocky or something. I knew my face was red as a tomato—but I was laughing, too, kind of enjoying Butch’s act.

And then, suddenly, it hit me… What did that announcer say about me riding in a speed event?

There was no turning back, it would seem, because Butch was dragging me over to a leggy sorrel gelding that his son Jeff was holding by the entry gate. The horse danced around in excitement. The whites of his eyes showed as he pawed the ground. I’d been traveling literally at a walk on the back of a steady-paced, calm-headed horse, for weeks and weeks. The difference between my kind of riding and this amped-up running machine was like the difference between your granny driving you to church and going shotgun in an Indy car. I pulled back, telling Butch rather frantically, “I don’t know what I’m doing!”

“Yes, you do,” he calmly reassured me. “It’s just a flag race, no big deal. Just reach over and pull the little stick out of each barrel when you ride by it, and let the horse do the rest. On the stretch home, just let him go. You’re gonna love it, I guarantee.”

Even as I protested I knew I was going to do it. I could hear the crowd yelling, urging me into the saddle. Butch gave me a leg up, and suddenly I was holding the reins. My big sorrel horse pawed and jigged in place in anticipation of what was to come. I swallowed and tried to sit deeper on his back, taking a real feel of the great force of energy I was holding back with just my fingers and a set of thin leather reins.

“You rode that horse of yours out here for an adventure, didn’t you?” Butch asked with a grin, slapping my leg.

I barely had time to nod at the timers, and then we were flying through the gate, headed for the first barrel with a bucket on top, the little flag sticking up, waiting for me to grab it.

The sorrel horse knew his job. His hooves pounded, dirt flew, and with one hand clenched tightly round the saddle horn, I leaned in…but missed the flag. Tears streamed straight back from the corners of my eyes as the sorrel leaned in low to the ground—awfully low—around the next barrel, but…I got the flag! I held it tightly in my hand as we ran for the last barrel and then the straightaway home, galloping full out.

I reined the horse to a stop, laughing. “That was a blast!” I admitted as I jumped off. Butch beamed and the crowd applauded as the announcer read my time. I reached out to pat the neck of the gelding, breathing hard beside me. We left the ring together, Butch clapping me on the back as I acknowledged that he was right: this was an adventure.

Butch stood by, watching thoughtfully as several people came over to us to say hello and have a chuckle about my run on the fast sorrel.

“You tell everyone how good the people you’ve met have been to you and your animals,” Butch said to me later as we drove back to the Goodmans’ home. “Well, maybe you’re doing something good for them, too.” He paused as he guided the truck along the night-dark road. “I think your trip brings people together, and it makes them feel good to help you. It gives people a little piece of your dream.”

I liked to believe what Butch said was true. It gave me a sense of purpose and happiness to think of my trip that way.

It was dark when we reached town, but to Butch Goodman, the night was still young. He proudly informed me that Lancaster, Ohio, was home to The Charlie Horse, the third largest country dance bar in the nation (second only to Gillie’s and Billie Bob’s in Texas).

“We feel it’s our duty to take you there,” said Nancy.

There was a big crowd at The Charlie Horse, and we parked far from the door. Country-singing legend Kitty Wells was performing. The place was so big, and there was so much going on, I didn’t know where to look. Unfortunately, on one of his trips to the bar, Butch spotted something for me that he just could not resist.

“There’s something over here you have to try,” he said, motioning for me to follow him. I caught him winking at Nancy as I got up from the table.

The “something” was a mechanical bull, complete with a crowd gathered round to watch those crazy or drunk enough to give it a try.

“Oh…no, no, no,” I said, shaking my head at him as I watched would-be cowboys get tossed to the mat.

“No, c’mon, it’s easy,” Butch insisted. “People who ride horses can stay on these things. It’s just like when your horse feels good in the spring and gives a couple of crow hops.”

I gave that mechanical bull a long, hard look. I bet I could stay on the dumb thing. “All right,” I said to Butch, and in a blink he was paying my entry fee and pushing a form at me to sign.

“Don’t turn it up to the highest level or anything,” I insisted.

“Of course not,” Butch replied, grinning as I climbed on. The last thing I saw before the bucking got going was my host, making a turning motion with his hand, telling the guy operating the mechanical bull to crank it up.

You know what? I think Butch was right. Riding horses did help. I didn’t get tossed for a few really long seconds. And I won a Charlie Horse t-shirt out of the deal.

I sat at our table afterward, catching my breath. Kitty Wells’ band started in with the opening chords of her signature hit, “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels,” signaling the near-end of her show. And there was Butch, waiting up by the stage, getting her autograph for me.

It was the middle of the night when we finally headed home. My sides hurt from laughing so much. Nancy started to explain why I should plan on staying another day, to rest and recharge.

“Besides,” said Butch. “You haven’t tried water skiing yet.”

JUMP ABOARD

Gypsy had grown quite a bit since we’d left home, and it had gotten harder to mount up while holding her. We had developed an awkward system where Gypsy stood on her hind legs and put her front paws along Rainy’s flanks; then, from the saddle, I leaned over and grabbed her paws. She pushed, I pulled, Rainy stood patiently, and Gypsy eventually scrambled into the saddle.

After traveling all morning with Gypsy on foot, meandering and sniffing and doing what dogs do, we stopped in the shade of some trees to cool off. I could tell Gypsy was weary of walking and wanted a ride by the way she positioned herself alongside Rainy. I leaned over to do our usual “grab thing,” but this time, my pup sprang forward and shot herself up and across the saddle, all on her own. I was so surprised I barely had time to grab her so she wouldn’t go right over the other side.

“Gypsy! You smart, smart girl!” I exclaimed, holding her face in my hands. The pup beat her tail against Rainy’s shoulder, looking pleased. I ran my hands over her body the way she liked and praised her again.

From that moment on, all I had to do was pat the saddle when I wanted Gypsy to ride with me, and she would jump up from the ground. When reporters asked me how I trained my dog to get on a horse, I told them the truth.

She taught herself.

ICE CREAM SHOP

Sometimes our “chain of people” introduced me to someone who rode with us for a while. But one sunny June day in Ohio, we had a support team driving a car with us along our route. Sherry, Jean, and Grace from the Orihood and Stinson families, checked on us, brought us cool drinks, and let me know what was up ahead. I agreed to meet them at an ice cream shop in a nearby town and then look at saddles at the local tack shop.

Rainy clip-clopped through town until I spotted the ice cream place up ahead, with Sherry, Grace, and Jean at an outdoor table, leaning out and waving so I could see them. A few other scattered groups of people were eating ice cream, too. When Rainy, Gypsy, and I rode into view, everyone burst out laughing.

We approached and Rainy stopped with his nose practically on one of the tables, and everyone laughed even more raucously. I felt uncomfortable but then quickly noticed the laughter was directed toward a lean, middle-aged man near the takeout window of the shop. The customers around me were urging him in our direction.

“Go on!” I heard them encourage him, laughing some more. “You have to do it!”

I soon learned that, apparently, when my friends kept getting up from their seats and looking down the sidewalk for our arrival, they had explained to the shop owner they were watching for a horse and rider who had come all the way from New York. The owner’s reaction, not altogether wisely, was: “Yeah, right. If a horse rides down my sidewalk—and it’s walked here all the way from New York—I’ll kiss its ass!”

A man of his word, the man did what he said he’d do. He made a show of it, too, to the delight of his audience.

We all got free ice cream cones after that, and buckets of cold water were brought out for Rainy and Gypsy.

I also got a “Coney Isle Ice Cream” tee shirt to join what was beginning to be a collection.

ON SADDLES

Rainy had been strong and steady, but I couldn’t shake a concern I had about his back. Being around so many different horse people as we traveled had only muddied the waters, since opinions on saddle fit and symptoms of a sore back varied greatly. Even veterinarians I met didn’t agree. It bothered me to even think I might be doing something wrong with my hardworking horse, and I was soon consumed with worry that my Western saddle might not be the best option for Rainy on our long walk.

In the simplest of terms, most saddles are referred to as “Western” or “English,” but the subject is deeper than that. The saddle, whatever the style, has to fit the horse correctly, or the horse will get saddle sores (raw, painful wounds from chafing or pressure) or become sore-backed. To make matters more complex, the saddle needs to fit the rider also, for a good seat, stability, and comfort.

It was with reservations that I considered any changes to our rig. I didn’t know for sure that anything was wrong with Rainy’s back. He hadn’t had saddle sores, usually the bane of long-distance riders. My saddle had gotten us from New York to western Ohio; I worried that if I traded it in, I might end up with one that was worse. I decided I needed another expert to weigh in.

The helpful Orihood and Stinson families directed me to a well-known saddle shop outside Sabina, Ohio. The owner was available and I had the advantage of tying my horse right outside so we could discuss multiple fittings. It wasn’t long before I was convinced a better saddle existed for Rainy.

“Don’t look at fashion or style,” urged the shop owner. “Just think about fit, how your horse is built, and how he moves.”

Trying the saddles on Rainy told a surprising story. The one saddle that seemed perfect was neither Western nor English. It was a “plantation saddle”—so named as the style was once used by plantation overseers, country doctors, and others who spent long hours on horseback and needed a saddle that was comfortable for themselves and their mounts. It was light and sat on my horse correctly. He walked freely and easily in it, the saddle covering all it should yet leaving his withers and shoulders free. It was comfortable for me, too, with an easy sloping seat and generous padding.

Each saddle is unique, but the truth was, I simply liked my saddle. It had been my saddle through almost all my riding career, as well as the memorable miles I’d ridden to reach the saddle shop. It was with a twinge of sadness that I handed it over in trade, hoping I was doing the right thing.

COWBOYS FOR CHRIST

We’d ridden for hundreds of miles and more than six weeks, and Rainy’s shoes needed to be reset. Horses’ feet grow and need to be trimmed periodically, like our fingernails. With a “reset,” a farrier (a hoof care professional) removes the horse’s metal shoes, trims the hooves, and places the shoes back on—as long as they’re not worn out. Back home, we had a standing appointment with our farrier every six weeks. Now I was at the mercy of the reputations and schedules of the farriers used by the horse owners I met on the road. The boarders at Decker Road/Springwood Stables, where we were spending the night, assured me that their farrier, Doug, was well respected and specialized in corrective and unusual shoeing jobs. This was an important detail because the shoes Rainy wore our trip were custom-made by our farrier at home to keep Rainy sound and comfortable.

Late in the day a pickup truck, showing the wear of many miles on country roads and a sticker on the tailgate that said “Cowboys for Christ,” pulled in by the barn.

Doug had a quiet shyness that for some reason made me trust him. I held Rainy as the man got to work on my horse’s feet. A few boarders from the barn stood around, chatting and watching, interested in the special shoes that Rainy wore: borium (extra metal added to shoes that increases the friction against the surfaces a horse is working on) so he wouldn’t slip; toe clips to help secure the shoes to the horse’s hooves and prevent them twisting and moving rearward; pads to protect the soft part of Rainy’s feet from stones; and liquid silicone injected between the pads and hooves to add extra cushion and protection from concussion with the ground.

As he finished, Doug praised my farrier’s work and Rainy’s solid, healthy hooves. He handed me a folded sheet of paper. “Here are names of other Cowboys for Christ who you can find as you get farther west,” he said. “These are people who will help you out.” He paused, then asked, “Do you have a Bible with you?”

I shook my head.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to give you this one,” he offered, taking a small leather-bound Bible from his pocket. “Would you keep it with you?”

I nodded yes as he passed it to me.

It was clear that Doug’s faith was such that he felt better knowing I was carrying a Bible on our journey. As I reached out to take the small book, I noticed it did not appear to be a free “handout” Bible like I expected. Instead, its leather cover was worn soft, and the whole thing curved gently into the shape of things carried in a back pocket over time. Certain passages on certain pages were marked by dog-eared corners.

It was clear that this was Doug’s own Bible, well used and read, that he had handed to me.

SHADOWS

Because of the hours I was spending outdoors with my animals, day after day, walking at a calm and steady pace, I had started to notice things I’d never paid attention to before.

Like our shadows.

Shadows are often used as the literary representation of darkness and evil, but they didn’t seem this way to me. Instead our shadows seemed like something cheery—always companionably, silently near. I’d come to notice how their size and the shape changed as the day wore on and the sun made its way across our sky. How giant and misshapen, yet always benevolent, our shadows looked, stretching out across the cornfields beside us. They were the best of fair-weather friends.

The shadows showed our shapes—a horse and rider and a dog—with our feet on the ground, but not exactly earthbound.

They made me aware, always, of the passage of time, and the vague feeling that even if I had no maps and no compass, we could find our way west by just following the path of the setting sun. I liked riding best when the sun was in our eyes and the shadows were long behind us.

WELCOME TO INDIANA

The land rolled out before us in little rises, making the road we were on look like a strand of old-fashioned ribbon candy.

On the north side of the two-lane road, with nothing but hayfields beyond it, stood the sign that welcomed us to Indiana. As we neared it, I felt the excitement, again, as I had when we crossed into all the states before. I pulled out my camera and took a picture: just rolling fields, an empty road, and a sign.

Tucking my camera back into my saddlebag, I smiled at the accomplishment: We’d made it to another state! And this time, we’d crossed into a different time zone. I patted both my partners, congratulating them for another milestone, a source of quiet happiness for travelers like us.

Our first night in Indiana brought us to the barn of horsewoman Marge Jones, a connection through several Ohio farm families, including the Nelsons and the Caplingers, who in turn were connections all the way back to Butch and Nancy Goodman. While getting settled in Marge’s horse trailer, where I was going to sleep, I suddenly remembered that it was the day of my younger brother Vince’s high school graduation. I hesitated, then walked through the damp grass to knock on Marge’s door. She answered, assuring me it was all right to call home. I spoke to everyone in my family, listening to the distant sounds of celebrations in the background. When I hung up, I had to press my hands against my eyes for a minute. I tried Mike, but his phone just rang and rang.

In the morning, Marge fed us breakfast and handed me a list of people she’d contacted and who were happy to host us as we made our way through Indiana.

We rode almost 30 miles the next day, and though the terrain was easy, the heat had all of us worn down. We arrived at the riding club grounds off Route 44 near Rushville, where Marge had said someone would meet us and let us in…but no one had shown up yet.

I let Rainy graze while I sat in the grass and rubbed my eyes. Gypsy sprawled panting beside me. No one appeared. We waited.

I still got just a little bit thrown off when plans fell through. It wasn’t panic. I didn’t cry like I had in the early days of the trip. It was more of a let-down feeling, like we’d been forgotten somehow. Pushing my disappointment and weariness aside, I tried to think up a Plan B. I didn’t mind camping and there was grass and water, so it wasn’t like we didn’t have a place to stay. It occurred to me that it might not be the accommodations that I needed at that moment; maybe it was the human connection. Spending so much time on the road alone made even small amounts of contact meaningful, and the kindness we had received from people always recharged me.

I pushed myself up from the ground and tied Rainy to the club’s corral fence. Gypsy and I set off down the road to see if we could find a place to buy a little hay or feed, and we lucked out with the Needenthals at the very first farm we came to. By the time I returned to Rainy at the corral, Bill Moster from the riding club had arrived, ready to assist us with anything we might need. The Needenthals pulled in with hay for Rainy on their truck. And the Johnsons, whose house was just down the road, came by to visit, too.

Isn’t it funny how once you decide you can be self-sufficient, help seems to come around?

As we continued our way through southern Indiana, loosely following Route 44, I kept a close watch on Rainy. The new saddle seemed to be good for him. And his re-set shoes seemed to be working out, as well. I felt thankful as we headed toward Shelbyville, adding a detour to Kopp’s Tack Shop, where I had mail waiting. The extra miles were more than worth it: My mail was the first thing Dale Kopp handed me. The farther we traveled, the more envelopes I received at my pre-arranged stops—it was a comforting sign of how many new friends we were making.

Dale refused to accept money for the tack I needed—a better-fitting breast collar, a good, new saddle pad to further protect Rainy’s back, and a new headstall to replace the broken one I’d repaired in Ohio. I thanked him warmly as I called Gypsy up onto the front of the saddle, and off we set once more.

Mid-afternoon, we found a shady spot to take a break. I removed the saddle and checked my horse’s back to make sure all was going well with the new saddle-and-pad combination, then scratched his back for a minute. He wiggled his lips in pleasure before dropping his head to graze. I sat in the shade near him and took out the letters we’d retrieved from Kopp’s Tack Shop.

Though it was the one I had been most looking forward to, it didn’t take long to read the few short, impersonal lines of Mike’s letter. With his disappointing note in my hand, I looked up at my dog and my horse, and the packs on the ground that held everything we needed. The leaves of the tree above us traced a lacy pattern of shadows where we sat. The cars on the road hummed off in the distance. The world at home, the world with Mike in it, felt like a million miles away.

As I put away the remaining letters and began to tack up, adjusting the new breast collar on Rainy, it occurred to me that here we were, a couple months on the road, and I did not have one single piece of Rainy’s tack that we had started the journey with. Everything I’d had at home and thought was a sure thing was different now.

We rode onward, surrounded by Indiana cornfields, with our new and necessary things, leaving much of what we’d started out with behind.

GOLDEN BOY

Rainy was a “buckskin,” a word used to describe a horse with a light-colored body with black legs, mane, tail, muzzle, and ears, a striking combination. His summer coat now shone as golden as the sunshine. He glowed with health and vitality. Life on the road seemed to suit him.

I loved how Rainy looked and was especially partial to his muzzle. It was a dusky charcoal and soft, soft, soft. He possessed a curious nature and was always making use of his muzzle, reaching forward to test new things with his lips—picking up objects and then dropping them to the ground.

My buckskin’s affectionate moments touched me the most. That muzzle, part of such a powerful animal, would come to rest in the spot between my shoulder and ear. There he would pause, waiting for me to scratch his neck. I could feel his breath and the velvet of his lips grazing my ear. Having a moment like that every now and then, where he showed affection in his horsey way—to me, that was heaven.

CONSTRUCTION SITE

After the animals and I had spent a pleasant night at Ben and Mercy Phillips’ farm in Martinsville, Mercy was able to join us on her well-behaved Appaloosa for part of the day as we traveled west on Route 44. Mercy was good company, and the morning passed quickly.

After a few hours together, Mercy reined her horse to a stop. “I wish I could go on with you,” she said, “but this is where I have to turn around.”

I halted Rainy, our two horses lined up, side by side. I think he enjoyed the company, too.

“You’re going to come to a huge construction site on 44,” Mercy warned me. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to go on without a detour. And remember, you can call us if you need anything, anywhere in Indiana!”

We waved to each other, and I watched her ride back the way we’d come for a long moment before turning Rainy and continuing west.

After a mile or so, I heard the sound of heavy machinery. The noise got louder as we rode around a bend and came upon a “ROAD CLOSED” sign, blocking the way in front of us. The ground was all torn up and it appeared a new bridge was being built. I sat on my horse, one hand on Gypsy’s back, trying to discern through the dust and noise if there was a way we could get through and stay on Route 44. I really didn’t like the idea of going miles out of our way.

A construction worker marking something out on the ground looked up and noticed us. I pointed to where Route 44 was supposed to be and tried to indicate that was where I wanted to go. He lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

A minute later a grader slowed down and ground to a halt. One by one the other giant vehicles, lurking beyond the sign, shut down. The worker walked over to me.

“You need to get over there?” he asked, looking in the direction I’d pointed.

“Can I?” I responded, feeling doubtful by the look of things.

“We can get you through,” he said with a nod. He eyed our packs and gear. “Where are you from? Are you traveling far?”

“New York,” I answered, “and we’re on our way to California.”

The worker’s eyes widened in surprise. He got on his handheld radio again.

Soon a group of guys in safety goggles and steel-toed boots were all around, the dust of their work settling on us as we talked. I couldn’t help but enjoy their responses as I told them about our trip. They seemed like such a fun, friendly bunch.

“Thank you so much for this,” I said as one of the men reached out to pat Rainy’s neck. “I feel guilty having you shut down the whole construction site for us.”

The whole group looked at the worker with the walkie-talkie for a second, and then one guy asked with a grin, “Did he tell you that he shut it down for you?” He and the others laughed as I nodded. “It’s lunchtime! We always stop work about this time!” I had to laugh, too.

“When are you going to have your lunch?” one of the men asked. I shrugged, having made no plans beyond getting past the construction site, and he teased, “Come on, time for a break! Give that poor horse a rest.”

So I dismounted, loosened Rainy’s girth, and led him to a patch of grass in the shade. The men sat on the ground, so I did, too. Gypsy was happy to flop in a cool spot next to me. We chatted companionably as the workers pulled items from their metal lunch boxes, offering me choices from their own midday meals. I felt bad, taking their food on what was surely a long work day, but they all insisted, so I agreed to half a ham-and-cheese sandwich and an apple.

When it was time to go, a few guys showed me the way Rainy could get down a bank, up the opposite side, then along the tracks made by the construction machinery. This would lead me back to Route 44 on the other side of the site. I was saying my goodbyes and getting ready to head out when one of the men said, “Wait! Let’s get a picture.”

The workers joked and laughed as they jostled into position for the photograph. Someone located the work camera in the trailer they used as a construction site office. Someone else picked up Gypsy and handed her to me. We posed, me sitting tall on Rainy with Gypsy in my lap, smiling down at the group of hard-hatted men, also smiling, all around us.

SUNDAYS

I rarely knew what day of the week it was anymore. Somehow, though, I usually knew when it was Sunday. Our route through rural areas and small towns had taught me that Sundays had a certain feel to them—they were still a day of rest and respect in much of the countryside. As we rode along quiet country roads, I was aware of this subtle shift in the lives around us.

On Sunday mornings, when cars passed us, it was not like the usual weekday stream of vehicles that carried one or two people, doing errands and going to work. On Sundays, families were together in their automobiles, old and young, dressed up in good clothes. They slowed and stared as they went around us—an unexpected stranger on a horse on their road where they knew everyone. Most often they waved. On country roads, people usually wave when they pass each other.

On Sunday afternoons, the folks in the cars would often stop, curious about us. “Where are you going?” “Where are you from?” “What do you call your horse?”

There was a familiar sameness on Sundays: a friendly ritual in stopping and talking to people.

When we passed people at home, sitting on their porches, I raised an arm, waving hello. The little ice cream stands, a staple in small towns, always seemed to have more cars parked out front on Sundays. Sometimes, Rainy, Gypsy, and I stopped and visited there, too.

On Sundays, we got invited to dinner, we received offers of cold drinks, and we were welcomed onto shady lawns to rest. When we kept on our way, we were given best wishes and safe travels. These were the ways I always knew when it was a Sunday.

Rainy, Gypsy, and I had rituals of our own: the people who had shown us kindness, the sun shining on us and on the great fields of corn, the way the road curved ahead beckoning us, and our steady quiet walk together. This was our church.

REVIVAL

It was a long day’s ride to the road to the Bo-San-Bo Arena. We turned in and maneuvered through a parking area crowded with campers and RVs. Children ran around in herds, and our arrival caused a bit of a stir. Before long kids were lined up with treats to give Rainy: He crunched the apple right up, accepted a piece of a cookie, then, to the delight of all his little fans, shook his head and tossed a banana from his lips.

A few adults came over to say hello, and one asked if I was there for the show. Many in the crowd were wearing cowboy hats and Western shirts, but I was confused—Bo-San-Bo was a horse event venue, yet Rainy was the only equine in sight.

Bob Brown, part of the family that owned the place, made his way over and led us to the barns where Rainy would be stabled for the night. Finally, I saw other horses.

Teenaged Bob Junior helped me get Rainy settled, explaining the story behind Bo-San-Bo Arena. Bob (“Bo”) and Sandy (“San”), and their son Bob Junior (“Bo”) had built the business on their property in order to host barrel racing and horse shows. On nights that horses weren’t the focus on the grounds, the venue was often rented out for other events. A gospel concert and revival meeting was filling the place that night.

I called to Gypsy, and we wandered out to explore the grounds, following the smell of barbecue. Lights strung around tents glowed in the evening dusk. The sound of a band tuning their instruments and the sounds of many conversations drifted in the air. Children approached, asking where Rainy was, then settled for petting Gypsy instead.

One gentleman inquired whether I was the person who’d ridden on a horse all the way from New York. I said yes, and he insisted on buying me dinner from a concession tent. I sat at a picnic table with him and his friends and family. No one asked if I’d been saved or anything like that. They just smiled a lot and invited me to join them for the gospel music show.

It grew dark. I thanked the family for the meal and began walking back to the barn when I heard the announcement that the concert was starting. People who had been milling about now hurried toward the big tent. It sounded pretty lively inside.

What the heck, I thought, turning back to the tent with Gypsy right beside me. I entered a little nervously and stood at the back of the crowd.

Everyone around us seemed caught up in the loud music, and after a few minutes, I saw why. It was hard to sit still. The music swept you along into it—if you liked harmony and a foot-tapping beat! Someone spotted me trying to remain unnoticed in the back and motioned to an empty chair. I ventured forward and sat, Gypsy right beside me. The crowd got rowdier, and I couldn’t help but clap along. After every song the claps and hollers and yee-haws rang out—this was not like any church music I’d ever heard. This was rockin’!

By the time the band, called The Pathways, started a rousing version of “I Would Crawl All the Way to the River,” any feelings of self-consciousness or not belonging were forgotten. I jumped up, stood on my seat, and stomped and clapped and swayed along with everyone else. Gypsy gave a few excited barks, not sure what all the wild movement was about but ready to join in the game nonetheless. Soon my t-shirt was stuck to my back with a joyful kind of sweat, and I was hoarse from shouting and singing.

The band stopped playing and a tall gentleman joined them on stage and introduced himself as Brother Redmond. In a black cowboy hat and an abundance of heavy turquoise jewelry, he looked down upon the crowd, raising one hand high above his head as he took the microphone with the other.

“BROTHERS AND SISTERS!” he bellowed, whipping the crowd into further frenzy. “There are people in this world who have not yet accepted Jesus Christ as their personal savior!” The crowd murmured and mumbled in response. “What are we going to do about that?” he demanded. After another pause, “WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?” he shouted.

“PRAISE THE LORD!” the shouts rang back, and “SPREAD THE WORD!” someone screamed near me. The band broke out playing again, and Brother Redmond pointed at people, who raised their hands and called to him when they saw him look in their direction. Men paraded into the audience with baskets to collect money. “For our missions!” Brother Redmond reminded all of us. “For our mission work!”

As people closed their eyes in prayer, Gypsy and I slipped out the back flap of the tent. The evening air cooled my damp skin, and the clamor from the gathering was slightly muffled now that I was on the outside. I hummed to myself as Gypsy and I walked back to the camper we’d been given for the night. Even with the aluminum door closed, I could still hear music and shouts of “Praise the Lord!” floating through the summer night.

LAND OF LINCOLN

The whole state of Indiana had a small town feel, at least on the back roads where we traveled, and I became accustomed to people stopping us and knowing about our journey. The days in this state felt safe and friendly. We rode on in an easy way through the low hills that rolled gently before us, and arrived at the town of Vincennes, on the Wabash River in the southwest corner of Indiana. There, we crossed the bridge and passed the sign welcoming us to Illinois.

The Land of Lincoln! Another milestone on our trek. My animals and I would get to know its back roads, one step at a time.

We began in southeast Illinois on Route 50, an early and well-known coast-to-coast road, starting in Ocean City, Maryland, and terminating in Sacramento, California. Route 50 crossed the United States through farmland and small towns, just like Rainy, and Gypsy, and me.

We spent our first Illinois night in the town of Olney with a gracious young woman named Julie Hurn. Julie was helping me get Rainy ready in the morning when we turned to find Gypsy standing near the barn with Julie’s kitten hanging from her jaws. We both held our breath for a second, but Gypsy set the kitten down gently, and they began to play together. After a romp, the kitten sat between Gypsy’s outstretched front legs, leaning against the pup’s chest. We had to gently persuade the new friends to part when it came time to set out.

West of town, a woman stopped us, curious about our travels. When I told her we had just left Olney, she said, “I suppose someone told you about the white squirrels? They’re kind of famous. They’ve even been written up in National Geographic.”

“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t hear about them. What’s the story?”

The woman shrugged. “Olney isn’t even the only town that has ‘em anyway,” she said with a sniff. “There’s some other town in Missouri or Tennessee or something, and people there say they had the white squirrels first.”

It struck me as mighty funny that squirrels could stir up such human competitiveness. They spent their time leaping from tree limbs to fence rails and across power lines. They didn’t care where they came from or who saw them first.

It was pleasant riding along Route 50, and we made good progress. We spent one night in an old barn, where I placed my sleeping bag on the floor by Rainy’s stall at first…but hearing mice (and quite possibly other critters) in the barn, I moved to an old picnic table stored inside. Adaptable Gypsy climbed up and curled on the table alongside me.

Near Sandoval, we met a friendly newspaper reporter who bought me lunch on a swelteringly hot afternoon. The paper was so small, the printing presses were right next to his office—and he was the only one working there! Of all the things Virgil Downen and I talked about over our sandwiches, the deep connection between Rainy, Gypsy, and me was what he most wanted his readers to understand. I found that discussing it all with him and then reading his words about our trip helped with my own clarity of thought.

I used to tell people, “I want to ride a horse across the country, from New York to California!” like getting from one place to the other was the reason. It was different to me now. It was not a goal so much as it was a way of life.

If we made it to California, great. But it took a small town reporter to word things in a way that made me realize the heart of the story was the adventure. It was about back roads and small towns and good people—and about Rainy, Gypsy, and me, and all that we shared together.

As I traveled, I’d come to believe that roads had their own personalities. As we rode along Route 50, I grew fond of its two lanes; it was a “friendly” road. A wide strip of green grass kept us from being too close to the pavement and the traffic, and often, a line of trees shaded us from the hot afternoon sun. We were on Route 50 for days, and we began to see the same people pass by, heading to and coming home from work. Some began to stop and check on us. They offered cold drinks, advice, and friendly greetings. In this way, Rainy, Gypsy, and I became part of the road for a time.

Marty and Ray, two soft-spoken men who worked in the oil fields, professed worry for us. The last day I saw them, they tried to give me money. We stopped by the Owens family home, and their small children were so excited to have Rainy in their yard, they hauled bucket after bucket of water to him, spilling most of it on each trip. If the folks along Route 50 were a fair sampling, then I definitely liked the people of southern Illinois.

CARLYLE

A veterinarian who checked Rainy over as we neared the midline of the state of Illinois arranged for us to stay at the barn of Bob Lewis in the Route 50 town of Salem. Bob, in turn, was a well-known horseman in the area, and sent us onward saying he’d organized horse people he knew to look out for us in several other towns we’d pass through.

It was a particularly long day after leaving Salem, and Rainy wasn’t himself. My usually good boy with the willing attitude was cranky and lethargic. I needed to “listen” to what he was communicating by this change in personality. First thing was to give him time off.

I took it slow, stopping plenty of times for Rainy to rest, and it was evening by the time we rode into the town of Carlyle. I realized I should’ve asked for more details, as my directions from Bob Lewis consisted of simply, “Ride into Carlyle and go to the Court House. Someone will find you there.”

The Court House was a stately building right in the middle of town. I let Rainy graze on the lawn and sat beside him. It was quiet. The evening light was soft as streetlamps began to flicker on. I wondered whether it was legal for us to camp right there on the Court House lawn.

In the distance, I heard hoof beats. Three horses and riders came into view from a side street. My escorts had arrived.

Mike Kohlbrecher and his two boys, Chris and Steve, greeted me warmly. There was a flurry of friendly handshaking and a lot of questions, then: “It’s getting dark,” Mike said. “We’d better head out to the barn.”

We mounted back up, Rainy stepping lively now, invigorated by the company of other horses. We rode abreast down the main street under the light from the street lamps, as if we and our horses owned the road.

As we headed toward the Kohlbrechers’ barn outside town, the darkness became complete. It lowered the temperature enough to feel cool and wonderful after the heat and worry of the day. A big gorgeous moon rose in the sky, and it lit our way as we clip-clopped on in the lovely evening. The moonlight made soft shadows and our new friends felt like old and dear ones. We stayed out at the barn longer than we needed to, drinking Old Style beer, talking, and swiping at mosquitoes that landed on the necks of our horses, standing near.

As we ate a late dinner, Mike and his wife Sue invited us to stay with them longer than one night. It was like a small miracle: With my belief that Rainy needed a rest, I couldn’t have been more relieved.

“I’ll stay out at the barn with him,” I offered, not wanting to impose.

“The barn is for horses,” Mike answered. “You’ll stay right here.”

Mike also had no doubts about what we’d do the next day.

“Your trip across the country won’t be complete unless you meet Cletus Hulling,” he insisted. When I admitted I’d never heard of Cletus, Mike exclaimed in surprise. “He’s the ‘World’s Largest Horse Dealer!’”

In the morning, Sue looked skeptical as we prepared to head out.

“We’re just taking a ride out to Cletus’s place so Missy can see the countryside and the Hulling operation,” Mike said innocently.

Sue looked at her husband and shook her head. “No new horses,” she insisted.

“It’s just a quick visit,” Mike assured her.

We then promptly stopped at the barn, and he and the boys hooked up his stock trailer.

We headed west, joking around in the cab of the pickup as the empty trailer bounced along behind us. Mike told tall tales of the incredible “horse-dealing empire” run by Cletus Hulling.

Cletus was a big man in a cowboy hat, and as soon as he learned I’d ridden all the way from New York, he asked if I wanted to trade my horse in for another.

“Not for anything in the world,” I promptly replied.

Cletus laughed and invited us to have a look around.

We moved leisurely from one long barn to another, viewing every size, color, and breed of horse imaginable. I noticed Cletus and Mike deep in conversation in one aisle, and watched curiously as they shook hands.

Next thing I knew we were loading a stocky, sturdy-looking strawberry roan gelding up the ramp of the Kohlbrechers’ trailer.

Cletus handed me one of his “World’s Largest Horse Dealer” souvenir pens. “Good luck on your trip, young lady,” he said, “and come back when it’s time for a new horse.”

During our extra time with the Kohlbrechers, Rainy relaxed out in the barn and paddocks, grazing peacefully with Mike’s horses. The break proved to be just what he needed. He stepped out smartly when it came time to say goodbye and set out once again.

BIG RIVER

I rode with no concerns since Mike Kohlbrecher had made arrangements for us to stay with Bucket and Ethel Peters, about twenty miles or so away from his place, in the town of Trenton. “They are two of the nicest people you’re ever going to meet,” he assured me, and he was right: After spending the night at Bucket and Ethel’s place, the couple gave me a two-dollar bill, faded and pressed flat from spending years tucked in their Bible.

“It’s been our good-luck charm since the day we got married,” they informed me warmly, “and now we want you to have it.”

I tucked the token carefully into the little Bible I’d been given by the farrier in Ohio, which I knew they’d appreciate. We all hugged, then the animals and I turned back onto Route 50, heading toward the Mississippi River.

Ever since we’d ridden into Illinois, people had been asking how I planned to cross the Mississippi or warning me about the problems we would encounter when we neared it. I hadn’t seen the “Big River” yet, but as we rode closer, I felt a growing sense of its presence, an awareness of something massive looming ahead.

Staying on Route 50 would take us right into East St. Louis, some of the roughest inner city in the country. It joined several other roads that all merged with the interstate there, crossing the Big River on a curve, with the muddy water churning hundreds of feet below and highway traffic all around.

We’d experienced crossing other bridges in traffic, but I could tell that this one was very different. I felt riding into a dangerous situation would be unforgivable—Rainy’s and Gypsy’s safety was paramount. The Kohlbrechers, the Peters, and several other Illinois horse families had impressed upon me that I couldn’t just “ride across” near St. Louis; they had been kind enough to arrange a trailer ride to get us over the Mississippi.

I was glad to arrive in the town of Mascoutah, where I had mail waiting at the post office. My last phone call with Mike had been strained, and he was on my mind. I thought about calling him from town but decided I’d wait and read his letter first.

I’d been told that the driver with the trailer who was to ferry us across the river would find us on the road just west of Mascoutah. It wasn’t long before a red pickup truck hauling a red stock trailer pulled over, the driver leaning out the window and calling, “Needin’ a ride across the river?”

We loaded Rainy right in, tack and all, and Gypsy and I climbed in the cab.

“I’m Tim,” said our driver with a nod and a smile. “You’ve never seen the Mississippi?” He looked at me, and I shook my head. “Just wait. You’ll see why you had to accept a trailer ride!”

Tim went on and on about all the places he’d been, talking almost nonstop. Gypsy sat quietly at my feet. I turned to look out the back window and could see the top of Rainy’s head with his ears pricked forward. The Big River came into view, along with tall buildings and the famous arch on the St. Louis side. Traffic increased greatly, merging in from all directions as we began the crossing. Below were river boats and big paddle-wheel boats, and then the river curved away, into the distance. It was so wide it took several minutes to cross, even traveling at 65 miles an hour. The horsemen of Illinois who’d warned me were right: There was no way Rainy, Gypsy, and I could have crossed this long high bridge or somehow forged our way across this great body of water.

“Welcome to St. Louis, Missouri,” read a big sign on the far side of the bridge, “Gateway to the West!”

The West! I looked back again. Rainy’s head was still up; he was still looking forward.

Rainy and Gypsy and I had made it from New York to the Mississippi River! I could almost sense the terrain, spreading out in front of us. We were ready for whatever was on the other side.

A MYSTERY

Tim dropped us a little north of the city. Before the dust from the truck and trailer had settled, I opened the pack of mail I’d had sitting beside me in the cab of the truck. It only took a minute to see there wasn’t a letter from Mike back home. I stared at the small pile of envelopes for a moment, seeing only what wasn’t there.

I pushed the mail back in the big envelope; reading it was something to look forward to later. I expected we’d make good time to our night’s stop—another friend of the Kohlbrechers, a man Mike Kohbrecher referred to as “Diamond Jim.” I’d promised to call the Kohlbrechers and let them know that we’d safely gotten across the river, so before we headed out, I stopped at a convenience store to use the payphone.

“Hi, Mike!” I said when he answered. “It’s Missy!”

“Where are you? Are you okay?” he interrupted before I could tell him we were in Missouri. “We’ve all been on the phone, looking for you! Everyone’s worried about you!”

“Worried about me?” I asked, frowning in confusion. “Why? I got on the trailer you guys sent and—”

“No,” Mike interrupted again. “We’ve been calling around, seeing if anyone saw you trying to cross the bridge or if you went a different way or what. Our friend with the trailer called here, confused. He looked around where he was supposed to pick you up, but he couldn’t find you. He waited, he backtracked toward Trenton, but no sign of you.”

“He did find me,” I replied. “His name is Tim, right? With a red truck, red trailer…”

Mike was silent for a second on the other end of the line, then said, “Nope. The man we made arrangements with is not named Tim. And his rig is not red.”

It was my turn to be silent. I had gotten into a truck with the wrong man; I’d loaded Rainy right into his trailer. My mind replayed how Tim had pulled over as soon as he saw me and my horse and dog on Route 50. It never occurred to me to think that he was not the person who’d been sent to drive us across the Big River. I also thought about the moment on the ride when he’d asked if I wanted to get out and go for a walk in a cornfield. I’d said no thanks, and nothing more had happened, but the odd moment looked different now, and shook me a little.

I hung up after apologizing for making my new friends worry, and I promised again to keep in touch. As we rode on, I wondered about Tim in the red rig. It was a mystery.

DIAMOND JIM

Rainy, Gypsy, and I arrived at Diamond Jim Ribbings’ and found no one home. The place had a fenced paddock and a neat barn in a nice area. Unsure of what to do, I tied Rainy to the fence rail and took off his saddle and packs so he could graze in comfort. A horse whinnied from inside the barn, aware of our presence.

Next to the house was a garage with the door open. A phone was visible on the wall. Knowing I probably wouldn’t have privacy for much longer, I stepped inside the garage and dialed Mike in New York, collect.

I heard him accept the charges.

“Mike?” I ventured.

“Hi,” he responded. Then silence.

It made me nervous, so I rushed on. “I got my mail today, and there wasn’t a letter from you, so I got worried.”

“I know. I’ve been busy.”

His flat statement just sort of hung there. My stomach started to feel a little weird.

Afraid to ask him what “too busy” meant, I changed the subject, as if somehow that could change what was happening between us. I told him about the Mississippi and seeing the arch, trying to sound upbeat and excited, trying not to show how his coldness was affecting me. I told him how I’d found out I’d jumped in the wrong truck for the bridge crossing, childishly hoping he would show concern, admonishing me about the dangers of such a thing. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say much at all.

After a few more awkward minutes, we hung up. It was the first time ever a phone call had ended without Mike saying, “I love you.” I started to cry even before he disconnected and I heard the buzz of the long-distance dial tone in my ear—the buzz of many, many miles.

I held the phone to my ear, absorbing the words that had been said—and not said—for a minute. Then, as I slowly put it back in the receiver, a man—“Diamond Jim” Ribbings, I assumed—appeared in front of me in the doorway. I was a stranger in his garage, with his phone in my hand. But before I could explain who I was and that it had been a collect call, he saw the tears running down my cheeks. He simply opened his arms and pulled me into a great, comforting hug.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

And I did.

Jim, still in his work shirt and tie, sat in his garage, talking with me, for a long time. His family came home; he introduced me to his wife and daughter. I thought about how someday, when some guy caused her heartache, Jim’s daughter would be glad she had the dad she had.

Later, after my trip, when I tried to think of one act that symbolized the way people in every state we passed through reached out to me and made me feel not like a stranger, I thought of Diamond Jim Ribbings—how he walked onto his own property, found me there, crying, and just opened his arms, no questions asked.

SOOTHING SUNSETS

Heading south from the outskirts of St. Louis, I swore to myself that I would not think about Mike. But I did. It made me sad, and a little mad, too, that he hadn’t had enough character to at least say something—make his statement, so to speak—rather than silently waiting for me to just figure out that he was finished with the relationship.

The Missouri terrain rose into rolling hills, and the cornfields shrank to a more modest size than those we’d seen in Indiana and Illinois. I couldn’t shake my melancholy, especially when I realized I’d left my extra fleece girth cover, the bandanna that kept my neck from sunburn, and the denim jacket I folded and used for a pillow, behind. But then the sky put on a show for us at sundown. No one told me the sun set so beautifully in Missouri. Rainy and Gypsy and I faced west with a clear view of the fingers of color, spreading across the clouds, dusting the land with soft light and streaking the whole sky in front of us with shades of peach and plum. The light bathed us, allowing contentment to ease back into my soul.

LUXENHAUS FARM

Riding onto the grounds of Luxenhaus Farm outside Marthasville, Missouri, we passed a windmill, a covered bridge, and several more charming outbuildings. From the paddocks next to the horse barn a palomino and a bay whinnied out a welcome to Rainy. A screen door slammed, and a man and a young girl emerged from the tidy log farmhouse.

Bob Hostkoetter and his daughter Jill reached out to clasp my hand in greeting, then led us to the barn where Jill unsaddled Rainy and Bob made room for my things in their tack room. Rainy had developed a small chip in his hoof, causing me some concern. When I’d called the Hostkoetters the day before, I’d asked if they knew a farrier who could take a look at it.

“Our farrier can come out while you’re here,” Bob reassured me. “But he can’t make it until tomorrow. Can you stay an extra night?”

I thought Jill looked just a few years younger than me, and I smiled at her, thinking it might be fun to spend a little more time with them. Gypsy was already running around, reveling in being one in their pack of dogs, and Rainy looked quite comfortable in his roomy stall with hay and water.

When someone’s heart and soul is in a place, you can feel it. The Hostkoetters had made Luxenhaus Farm their life’s work. All the structures were original or mostly original buildings built in the 1800s. Bob brought them from their original sites around Missouri and reassembled them on his plot of land, remaining faithful to their original design. He explained that he had done it to preserve the heritage of the German-American homesteaders who’d settled this part of the country.

That evening I sat around in easy conversation with the Hostkoetters and mentioned that I’d lost some of my things, topping off a pretty rotten day.

“When things go bad, it comes in streaks,” Jill’s mom Lois mused.

“Let me tell you about my dream and my bad day,” Bob interjected as he cleaned his pipe. “I’ve always been interested in American history, especially the settlers who first came to these Missouri hills. I knew of an original settler’s log cabin in Perryville that was built around 1820—it was slated to be destroyed. I decided to buy the building and have it moved here.” Bob imagined the house would be carefully taken apart and marked for him so he could start reassembling it when it was delivered to his land. “When I got to my property,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment with the memory, “I found a huge pile of logs, dropped in a jumble.”

Reality turning out differently than the idea…I could identify with that!

The weather had been terrible, Bob had sustained a minor injury, and other factors had interfered with his ability to see his dream through. “I felt like giving up more than once,” Bob admitted.

It really hit home with me that evening how sometimes the bumps in the road on the way to achieving a goal can seem insurmountable. When you’ve gone out on a limb to follow your dream, the highs are really high, but that makes the lows seem even lower. But if things were always pleasant and always easy, there would be no grand and unusual accomplishments. By keeping on when the going gets tough, the challenges just become part of the story.

In the morning, the whole family joined me in the barn as the farrier filled in the little chip in Rainy’s front hoof and rasped it down a little. “His feet and legs look really good,” he assured me, “especially with all the miles he’s got on him!”

As he said this, I happened to look over at Jill. I could see in her face that something was bothering her.

“You’re not going to leave now, are you?” she asked. “I mean, now that your horse’s hoof is okay?”

It was early enough in the day for me to get some miles in, but I wanted to spend an extra day as much as Jill wanted me to. “We’re here for the day to hang out with you!” I promised.

The Hostkoetters all noted my plantation saddle, and Bob asked why I chose it over a Western one. “It’s comfortable, and it seems to be good for Rainy,” I explained, sharing a bit of my saddle-fitting adventure in Ohio. “But I miss my saddle horn. I’d hang things there, and Gypsy leaned on it and used it to brace herself.”

Bob frowned in concentration as he walked around the saddle, sitting on its stand, staring at it.

“Do you mind if I try something?” he asked. I shrugged, indicating he was more than welcome to take a look.

Jill and Lois had planned for us to enjoy some “girl stuff” in town, which of course meant we ended up in a tack shop before long. Then I joined them at their 4-H meeting, and we even fit in roller-skating before calling it a day.

When we got back to Luxenhaus Farm, Bob emerged from his workshop with my saddle over his arm. In the spot where a horn would be on a Western saddle, he’d bolted a metal bracket about five inches high and five inches across. It was padded and wrapped with sturdy fabric. Gypsy could lean into it, and I’d once again be able to hang items I needed, like my canteen, within easy reach.

Lois helped me, too: As a 4-H leader and “horse show mom,” she knew horse families throughout the state of Missouri. She worked all evening at the kitchen table with a map and a phone, setting up places for us to stay.

That second night at Luxenhaus Farm, strong winds swirled through the leaves in the treetops outside. Gypsy and I woke to the sound of a storm battering the roof of the sturdy log home. There was a knock on my door.

“We want you to be ready, just in case,” Lois warned me in a quiet voice. “There are tornado warnings in effect for our whole area.”

The word tornado made me shiver. I sat with my arm around Gypsy, listening to the wind. Sometime in the late hours, Jill rapped gently on my door, bringing me a candle, and the two of us, with Gypsy squeezed between us, sat on the edge of the bed, talking about nothing just to avoid thinking about the battering wind. The electricity was down, and although dawn was only a few hours away, the darkness was thick and heavy.

With the gray light of sunrise, the worst of the storm had passed. Jill and I went to let the horses out. Downed branches were scattered everywhere, and rivulets of water and small stones ran down the driveway. But by early afternoon, the weather had brightened again; it was time to get on the road.

I knew I would keep in touch with the Hostkoetters, but it was hard to say goodbye, especially when Jill handed me her jade horse necklace and a note.

“Don’t forget your Missouri family, now,” Lois said as we hugged. “Call us if you need anything.”

With Gypsy comfortably snuggled against the modified saddle horn, we headed west once again.

GOOD DOG, BAD DOG

We left Luxenhaus Farm with a wealth of contacts, but sometimes that simply meant a safe place for my horse and a spot where I could camp. I set up my tent for the night next to a small pen where I could corral Rainy. I didn’t have much to eat in my packs, so I decided to walk the few miles into a nearby town. Gypsy started out eagerly, bouncing and running ahead, but soon the heat had her walking behind me, her tongue hanging out. I focused on all the ways I’d treat myself when I got to town.

My spirits plunged when we arrived to find few businesses, all closed. It was Sunday. I should have known. My imagined splurge on all manner of tasty items ended up nothing more than crackers and chips from a vending machine at a gas station. Disheartened, Gypsy and I retraced our steps to Rainy and our tent.

I filled my canteen from the hose alongside the catch pen and sat on the grass with my disappointing picnic. Gypsy placed her paw on my arm.

“What’s up, Gyps?” I asked absentmindedly.

Suddenly, the pup grabbed the brim of the hat I was wearing in her teeth and pulled it off my head. She posed with her front legs outstretched, the hat in her mouth, her tail and hind end up in the air. She wanted to play.

“Naw, it’s too hot,” I said as she darted back and forth in front of me. But finally I made a grab for the hat. That was just what she wanted. Her “fierce” growls were muffled and goofy because of the hat in her mouth. I had to laugh and finally jumped up and chased her, which was her favorite game of all. We played tug of war, another thing she loved, until I flopped back on the grass, sweaty and smiling. Gypsy plopped down next to me, dropped the hat, and rolled over for a belly scratch.

“What a good dog you are,” I murmured with affection. I knew she had sensed my mood and had tried to cheer me up, in her own way.

Before we went to bed, a small black dog wandered into our campsite. I watched, amused as he and Gypsy played and ran around Rainy’s pen. When Gypsy had enough of the fun, she crawled into our tent by me, panting. Her new friend sat outside, waiting for her to come out and play again.

Soon the dog began to whine. He paced outside, going from one end of the tent to the other, looking in the screened openings at us and scratching to be let in.

“Get!” I said, and, “Shoo!” My tent was designed for mountain climbers—lightweight, freestanding, and compact, with finely woven mesh screens to keep insects out. Now, this one small dog was going to destroy it. I heard the first rip as his scratching became more urgent. I yelled and shook the tent, but it was too late. My wonderful insect-free tent soon had gaping holes on both ends. Within minutes I heard the whine of mosquitoes in my ear.

All night Gypsy snapped and I swatted as bites accumulated on my arms, ears, and scalp. In the morning, I felt downright miserable as I packed up to leave. As summer had progressed and we’d ridden south in Missouri, biting critters were everywhere. I climbed on Rainy and headed out into the day, distressed and scratching.

SERENDIPITY

Rolling back roads took us to Bland, Missouri, where we spent the night with the Krause family. They had five children and many horses, and the way the farm was built into the wooded hillside created the impression that kids and ponies were popping out from behind trees everywhere I looked.

“Bland is tiny,” Mr. Krause said at dinner. “There’s only one place for jobs around here—the little factory in town.”

“What kind of factory is it?” I asked out of curiosity. I liked to know about the places we rode through.

Mr. Krause chewed his food, taking a minute to answer. “It’s not a very big factory,” he said. “They just make screens for tents.”

I stopped eating and set my fork down. “What did you say?” I wanted to make sure I’d heard him right.

“I said there’s a small factory back in town where they make tent screens. Maybe tents, too, I’m not sure.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “How far away is it?” I pressed.

“’Bout two miles, kind of back in the direction you came from,” he replied, taking another bite of his dinner.

“Do you think they would fix my tent for me?” And I quickly told them about my run-in with the bad black dog the night before.

Mr. and Mrs. Krause look at each other and shrugged. Then, they began to run through all the people they knew who worked at the factory before deciding on someone to tap for help. Mr. Krause made the call for us.

It was just incredible to me that my tent needed repairs in the rural back roads of the Ozarks, and there we were, within reach of the one small industry nearby that just happened to make tent screens.

Mrs. Krause said it meant someone was watching out for us.

Early in the morning we headed back east for the first time since we’d left New York, following the Krauses’ directions to Kellco, the tent screen factory. Riding toward the rising sun felt strange after months of starting the day with the morning light at our backs.

Gypsy and I waited in the factory’s little lobby. In the time it took Rainy to graze a close-cropped circle around the flagpole where he was tied, a girl returned with my tent, the holes sewn up perfectly with fine nylon.

“Thank you so much!” I exclaimed.

By mid-afternoon, we were not much farther than we’d been at the same time the day before, but the delay, in this case, was more than worth it.

COPPERHEAD

Due to the heat, Gypsy had been riding with me a lot, leaning against the new backrest Bob Hostkoetter had added to the saddle. I was glad she wasn’t insisting on being on the ground because I’d seen snakes along the road, slithering quietly into the grass as we rode by. When we stopped at a ramshackle convenience store that was really little more than a shed in someone’s yard, the young woman there told me they were copperheads and I’d better watch out for them.

By midmorning the humidity was oppressive. Gypsy trotted along, stopping every once in a while to dig or stick her nose in a hole. After several miles, she asked to climb up in the saddle. Up close, I saw she had mud caked on her snout, making it look fat and puffy. As I brushed the dirt off I realized it was not just mud. Her nose was swollen.

“Gyps?” I said out loud. She looked up at me and wagged her tail. The more I looked, the odder her nose appeared. I thought about the copperhead snakes and how Gypsy liked to dig and explore and felt a flip of fear in my belly.

I desperately hoped the town we were riding toward was big enough to have a veterinarian. I urged Rainy into a faster walk. For the first time in all our months on the road, I wished that Rainy wasn’t my only form of transportation. Worry was a lump in my throat by the time we rode into Vienna.

I asked the first person I saw where we could find a vet, and he pointed up the street. I tied Rainy to a street sign outside the small office and hurried inside with Gypsy. Her nose was now very puffy and sort of raw looking. I tried to comfort her, telling her to hang in there. She wagged her tail as I murmured in her ear.

A young woman was seated on the office floor, playing with a baby. She looked up when we entered, inquiring, “Can I help you?”

“My dog needs a vet!” I said urgently.

“The doctor’s out on farm calls right now,” she responded in a matter-of-fact way, turning back to the baby.

My heart sunk. “Is there any way you can get ahold of him? My dog needs to see a vet really badly.”

The woman looked at Gypsy, who was happily sniffing around the open room, then looked back at me. “You could go out to where he is,” she suggested doubtfully.

I shook my head, indicating Rainy where he stood patiently outside the window. “I can’t get anywhere far away fast enough.”

She glanced out the window at my buckskin. “Oh, you’re that girl. I heard something about you.”

“Yes, that’s me,” I agreed impatiently, “and that’s Rainy, my horse, and this is Gypsy, my dog. I think she got bit by a copperhead!”

The woman looked at Gypsy again, who was eyeing a ball near the baby and wagging her tail.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Well, no, I’m not sure,” I admitted, “but she was digging and then her nose got all puffy.”

“Well, I can call out to where he is and see if he can stop back between appointments,” she said. “I’m Irene, Dr. Henderson’s wife.”

I realized I didn’t really have a choice but to wait patiently.

Over an hour later, Loyal Henderson, veterinarian, walked in the door. He had on coveralls and smelled pleasantly farm-like. Overwhelmed with worry, I immediately explained why I was there. Dr. Henderson knelt on the floor, setting his travel bag beside him, and called to Gypsy. She wagged up to him; he stroked her head and then brushed the gunk off her nose with his thumb. Under the layer of dry dirt I could see it was pink and scaly in one puffy spot.

Calmly, he pronounced, “She’s not snake-bit.” Digging through his bag, he said, “She’s got ringworm.”

I felt a surge of relief. “So she’s going to be okay?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s okay right now. It’s contagious, though,” Dr. Henderson warned. “Here’s ointment for it. Be careful or you’ll get it, too.” He handed me a few small tubes, which I took, a little sheepishly.

“I’m sorry I dragged you back to town,” I apologized. “All I could think was she got bit by a snake and then I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“It’s okay, you have to treat ringworm anyway.” The busy man was already washing his hands, kissing his child, and saying goodbye to his wife. On his way out the door he called, “Good luck to you. And don’t let the snakes around here get you spooked.”

INSIDE HORSE

After days of heat the afternoon brought a slight breeze and a few gray clouds skittering across the blue sky. More clouds darkened the day, and before long, a pelting rain beat down on me and my companions.

I usually tried to find an open barn or garage where we could wait out this kind of heavy downpour. I hunkered down, shielding Gypsy as best I could, and kept watch for shelter as Rainy gamely plowed onward. Finally, I spotted a carport jutting out from a home in a little cluster of several houses along the road. I turned Rainy in at the driveway and jumped off. With my poncho hood and the heavy rainy limiting my vision, I led him through the entrance to the carport with Gypsy right behind. I thought it was an unusually low and narrow doorway for such a structure.

When I pulled my hood back, I saw why. We’d walked into an enclosed patio. There was a bench, a nice rocking chair, and some wicker furniture covered in chintz cushions. A glass-topped table with a candle and a potted plant sat in one corner. It was homey and pleasant—a sort of indoor/outdoor room. And it was definitely not a place a horse should be. I looked out at the rain pouring down and decided to take our chances where we were for just a few more minutes until the storm passed.

“Hello?” I called toward the door to the house. No response. I led Rainy carefully around the table across the flagstone floor and knocked at the door. No one answered, and no sounds came from inside.

I sat down gingerly on the wicker chair, holding Rainy’s reins in my hand. I hoped if the people who lived there came upon us, they would see we were doing no harm. It would only be a few minutes until the rain stopped.

I leaned back in the chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The air was warm and heavy, and the rain tap-tapped on the roof. Rainy lowered his head and his bottom lip drooped. Gypsy curled up by my feet with a sigh. I felt my head bob a little as I listened to the pattern of the raindrops and the sound of Rainy and Gypsy’s slow breathing.

My head jerked up, my heart jump-started from sleep by a loud ripping noise.

I looked around, confused for a minute in the unfamiliar surroundings. A strange cloud of white filled the air. Rainy was shaking his head and snorting from across the room.

I tried to shake off sleep and get my wits about me. The white powdery stuff was everywhere. It covered the glass table, the plants and pillows, and gathered in white spots on Rainy’s coat so he looked like an Appaloosa. A brown bag stood ripped open, spilling the powder across the stone floor.

I figured that when I’d dozed off, the reins fell from my hands, and my Rainy, always curious and a bit mouthy, had spied the large brown bag that looked remarkably the same as the bags that usually contained his sweet feed. He must’ve walked across the room to the bag and ripped it open—something he’d done before back home with feed bags if I didn’t get them into the tack room fast enough. Only this time, he’d torn open a fifty-pound bag of lime.

I looked his buckskin coat over carefully. He seemed all right, other than the white speckles I had to brush off his nose as he snorted. Keeping the reins in one hand so he couldn’t get into more mischief, I looked around for a broom or something—anything—I could use to clean up the mess. I tried brushing with my bare hands, but it was futile. A lame attempt at sort of sweeping with my sneakered foot only ground the lime into the floor. There was no rag in sight, no old newspapers, nothing I could do to make the mess better.

The afternoon sunlight was breaking through. Feeling guilty but having little choice, I called to Gypsy and led Rainy across the patio and on out the screen door.

When I turned back to view the chaos again, I knew what would mystify the homeowners even more than the torn bag and coating of white powder were the large, perfect hoof prints that led from their home’s back door, across the patio floor, and out.

MY RAINY

The last veterinarian who had seen Rainy had declared him fit and healthy, his feet and legs holding up well to all the miles he walked every day. As we rode on, I thought about how I could rely on moments every day that reminded me to be thankful for this horse of mine. Rainy was so good-natured and willing that riding him was, quite simply, a pleasure.

In this part of Missouri, the roadside was wooded and green, intersected with streams and muddy runoffs. Moisture and humidity was a constant presence, and dewy grass wet our feet as we started out each morning. When we cut through the forest, the air hummed and chirped and tweeted with bugs and birds. I felt exposed and out in the open…in a good way.

Rainy had curiosity—not something you often hear about in horses. He didn’t find the world to be fraught with danger as some horses do, and that made him a wonderful partner for a journey like ours.

Many fingers of water and dirt roads twisted and turned around Lake of the Ozarks, and it felt like a place where it would be easy to get lost. We turned down a shady road of soft dirt—a good road for riding…until we found ourselves faced with a bridge. Rainy had crossed plenty of bridges in our time together, but none like this one. It was wooden and rickety and suspended in a way that caused it to sway when he placed a hoof on it.

Tracks across the bridge showed that cars used it, so I focused straight ahead at where we wanted to go. Rainy stepped forward and the whole bridge moved a bit from side to side. Slow-moving, muddy water below was visible between the wooden slats. But my good boy walked with his steady pace until we stepped on solid ground on the other side. I patted his withers, grateful for how sensible and willing this horse of mine was.

After days of traveling unnamed back roads, we rode out onto Route 54 and its paved two lanes. Just as I’d come to expect in Missouri, the setting sun had brushed dramatic streaks of darkening orange across the dark navy of the coming night sky. The air was so warm and the sky so pretty, the evening felt almost dreamlike.

That night Rainy whinnied a soft greeting when I checked on him before bed. I stroked his cheek, and he pressed his muzzle against my leg. This small moment made me realize how perfect life was sometimes.

Some people want a horse for status or to win ribbons. But true horsemen seek this: a connection with an animal that wants to please you and be with you. This was what Rainy gave me, and it filled my heart.

NANNIE AND ANTHIS

Nannie Jenkins stood by the side of the road watching as Rainy, Gypsy, and I approached. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun, and a faded pastel cotton dress covered her sturdy shape. Chickens pecked the ground around her.

I asked Rainy to halt and jumped down. From the nearby farmhouse, another white-haired woman came to join us—this one small and diminutive. I shook hands with Anthis Wright, Nannie’s sister.

Nannie laid her hand on Rainy’s neck. “Let’s get this good horse taken care of,” she said, “and then you’ll have supper with us.”

It seemed awfully early to be thinking about supper. Besides, these women seemed so, well, old, that I didn’t want to make any work for them. “Don’t go to any trouble for me,” I said. “I’ll just stay out in the barn with Rainy.”

Both women looked at me with stern expressions.

“Of course you won’t stay in the barn,” Nannie insisted. “You have to eat. We’ve been getting ready for you since we heard you were coming.”

“Oh, of course, then,” I replied, giving in. “Thank you.”

Because of the white hair and the old-fashioned clothes, Nannie and Anthis’s age was what first made an impression on me. Years had worn lines on their faces. But these were not frail women. They had strong hands and clear, intelligent eyes.

In the barn stood an old black-and-white dairy cow, and next to her a few boards had been nailed up to partition off a square stall. Straw bedding covered the floor, and a water bucket sat in the corner. Everything looked freshly done, and I wondered if the sisters did it all for us.

I hosed down Rainy with Nannie and Anthis watching, then led him into the makeshift stall. He stuck his nose over the boards to meet the cow. She looked over her shoulder at him with her big dark eyes, then went back to her food. This established, Rainy went to work on his own pile of hay. Chickens mingled around his feet. It was peaceful watching the scene play out, and I was again thankful for Rainy, how nice he was and the way he could fit in anywhere.

The sisters offered a tour of their farm, which I accepted. I admired their garden—a perfect square of beans, tomatoes, squash, and corn, growing in neat rows. They talked as we walked, and though they never said their exact ages, they mentioned they were both members of the “Over Eighty Club.”

I offered to help with dinner, but Anthis waved me over to sit with Nannie, who was pulling out photo albums. We sat, our heads close together, as she opened up a big black book.

The pictures were black and white: old friends, farm homes being framed up, horses. Once in a while Nannie pointed out certain friends and family. “This is Ada,” she said. “She’s ninety-two here.” Or, “This is Nel. We lost her last year.” She showed me a picture of the “Johnson Girls,” as she called them—the “girls” being eighty-nine and ninety-four at the time of the photo.

Nannie told me that she regularly contributed to the local paper and had helped write several books about the local history and Missouri pioneers. I was totally engrossed in her tales of how settlers claimed the land where panthers and wolves ranged, and the details she knew of the hardships of life back then—when Missouri and Arkansas were still the “Wild West.” Though my trip was a far cry from what early cross-country travelers endured, learning about the pioneers somehow connected me to the people who made hoof prints heading west, long before Rainy, Gypsy, and I did. Nannie had actually known some of those early settlers when she was young, and hearing her stories and sharing her old photographs made me feel like the journey my animals and I were on was a part of something bigger.

I looked at Nannie and Anthis, there on their farm, still doing the work it took to keep it going. How wonderful to grow old that well, with the strength they had and the interest they had in the world around them. I was grateful the paths of our lives had crossed.

DEERFIELD

Near the western border of Missouri, having crossed the state from the affluent suburbs of St. Louis to the worn shacks in the Ozarks, I thought about what stood out about the state, and I called up a kaleidoscope of images. I thought of dark woodsy nights, farmland, and snakes and ticks. And the way people all seemed to know each other, even in towns twenty and forty miles apart. And of course the sunsets—how in the evenings we rode west into pink sky, the very air seemingly rose-colored around us.

Riding along 54 and drooping in the heat, I spotted a sign welcoming us to Deerfield, and with it, a notice for a general store. Perking up at the prospect, I followed the path until we came to the store. I tied Rainy to the porch railing, loosened his girth, and took the few steps up to the door. Little bells tinkled as I pushed my way inside, and I had to squint, stepping in from the bright sun to the shadows within.

“Hello there,” said a voice.

Amongst the shelves of canned goods and cereal, along the scuffed and worn wooden floor, several men sat on overturned boxes and a folding chair or two, playing checkers.

One of them touched his hand to the brim of his dusty and worn hat.

I let the door creak shut behind me, and Gypsy, always right on my heels, walked over to the men, looked at one of them the right way, and started getting her ears scratched.

“Hello there,” the same man said again, and they all nodded or smiled at me, and another one said, “Ridin’ across the country, are ya?”

I smiled back at them. For just a moment I remained still, holding the picture in my mind: old men playing checkers in a general store, the swayed wooden shelves, the dust motes in the sunlight from the door and the windows.

That was how I would remember Missouri.

DELAYS

The sun burned high and hot when I stopped Rainy in the shadow cast by a large billboard along the side of the two lanes of Route 54. Rainy snatched at the green grass growing thick there, the reins lying loose on his neck. Gypsy’s tongue hung out as she stretched in front of me on the saddle.

Me, I just stared, in wonder you could say, up at the great sunflower welcoming us to Kansas.

Halfway.

We were halfway across the country.

Rainy got a complete checkup at the veterinary clinic in Fort Scott, the first town we came to in our new state. One of the vets, Dr. Durling, offered us a place to stay the night.

In the morning, the family bustled about, getting ready to leave on vacation. Despite all she had to do, Mrs. Durling was kind enough to make a big breakfast before I hit the road. I appreciated it, but for some reason, I could hardly eat.

I felt weak when I tried to tighten the girth of my saddle, but I swung up and waved goodbye as the Durlings packed up their car.

Two miles. That’s about how far I got before my vision started to turn black around the edges. I slid off Rainy and stood there, leaning on him. It felt like I was going to faint. My legs trembled. My horse stood motionless, not pulling to eat like he usually did whenever we stopped. Gypsy sat quietly, staring up at me. I felt a sharp pain in my side and wooziness in my head. The dizziness came again as I rested my head on Rainy’s side.

I walked a few steps on wobbly legs and threw up in the tall grass, holding the reins behind my back. Gypsy whined nervously. I was sweating like crazy and could barely pull myself back up in the saddle.

Rainy began to walk slowly along. I struggled to stay upright. I didn’t hear a car pull up beside us, my head was buzzing so. Then, distantly, I heard my name.

“Missy? We came to say goodbye. We’re—hey, Missy…are you okay?” It was the Durlings, heading out on their trip. Mrs. Durling’s face was full of concern as she said, “You’re bright red.”

I looked at them with watery eyes. “I think I’m sick.”

“Go back,” Mrs. Durling said without hesitation. “Go back to our house. You can stay until you feel better.”

She told me where to find a key, and I thanked her feebly before turning around and backtracking to the Durlings’ place. It was all I could do to untack Rainy and turn him out in their pasture. I fumbled my way into their house and immediately crashed on a sofa in their basement.

The whole day passed as I drifted in and out of sleep. I got sick again. I managed to get up once to check Rainy. Gypsy stayed right beside me, wherever I was.

When I woke once again, it was almost evening. I checked on Rainy again and didn’t feel as bad—just weak. I even managed to drink a little water. I stood outside on the deck for a few minutes, looking down at my horse, when I heard a sound from inside the empty house. I turned to see someone walking toward me and yelped in surprise.

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you! But John asked me to come check on you, see if you’re all right. I’m Dr. Reid Scifers, Dr. Durling’s partner.”

I stuttered, trying to find a response, unsettled because I’d been in my own strange world all day, sick, and I knew I must look a fright. And maybe a little bit because Dr. Reid Scifers was really, really cute.

“I think I’m feeling better,” I offered with a weak smile. I was so glad this guy hadn’t shown up while I was heaving in the toilet or lying in oblivion on the basement sofa.

“So, they tell me at the clinic that you rode here? From New York?” Reid motioned toward one of the deck chairs, and I thankfully sat down, acknowledging I was pretty shaky.

“I did.” I was relieved to have something to talk about other than being sick. “With him.” I indicated Rainy, out in the pasture. “And Gypsy, too.” I nodded toward my dog, who it occurred to me should’ve barked when this young vet had come into the house, what with me in my weakened state and all. But she hadn’t. In fact, there she was, scooched up to him, practically sitting on his feet, gazing up at him adoringly.

“Why are you riding your horse across the country?” Reid asked. “And how’s he holding up?”

About an hour later, Reid and I were still talking on the deck; we were both surprised when we realized how much time had passed.

“I better get going,” he said. “I have to stop back at the clinic.”

He rose and walked toward the door, then turned back toward me.

“Are you feeling well enough to go to the rodeo at the fair tonight, maybe get something to eat?”

“Sure,” I answered, trying not to seem too eager or show how glad I was that he’d asked. And I was definitely feeling better.

The Little Britches Rodeo was pretty funny—the equivalent of Little League to baseball, basically giving little guys a chance at a sport for big guys. Reid and I laughed and talked and walked around the fair. My stomach reminded me I was not ready for any midway offerings yet.

It felt like everyone at the fair knew Reid and stopped him to say hello or ask him about a calf or pony. He spoke kindly to everyone. It’s easy to tell when someone is just putting on an act and when someone is for real.

Back at the Durlings’, Reid came out to meet Rainy as I did night check.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.

I still felt a little weak, and fun with Reid aside, I’d already decided I was going to stay and rest one more day.

“Because if you’re here,” he went on, “I could come back over and give Rainy a really good check up. If you want me to,” he added.

I could have mentioned that his partner, Dr. Durling, had just checked Rainy. But I didn’t. Truth was, it made my heart light to think of seeing him again the next day. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for Rainy to have as many vet checks as possible.

“Yes, I will be here tomorrow,” I answered.

For Rainy. Of course.

VET CALL

In the morning, feeling far better and well rested, I called home and had long conversations with my brothers, Vince and Jack, and my sister Jan. I enjoyed catching up after so many weeks and appreciated their enthusiastic response to the news that we had made it to Kansas. I gave Rainy a bath and turned him out to graze again. I got my packs in order and made sure everything was neat in the Durlings’ house.

Reid showed up about noon, and we chatted casually as we walked out to Rainy together. Reid spent a great deal of time checking my horse over—the exam he gave could not have been more thorough. And he offered to come by again when his workday was done.

For a short while, the time spent with Reid made all the miles and the times I’d felt alone over the past months just fall away. But after he drove away at the end of the evening, I went and stood with Rainy. I was beginning to feel worn down by all the goodbyes. Over and over on this trip, I would get attached or feel connected to someone, and then we had to say goodbye. I told myself it was part of the journey. I’d always been sentimental, always felt connections deeply, and always hated goodbyes. I never could have known how many people would touch this dream of mine.

Of course, Reid and I said the usual things about writing, keeping in touch, but really, I thought, how likely was that? Moving on was the very nature of what I did. Most of the time it was a great way to be, but sometimes, it just made me feel lonesome.

After packing up and grooming Rainy carefully the next morning, I left a note for the Durlings, thanking them for their kindness both while they were with me and while they were not. I walked slowly down the driveway, holding Rainy’s reins as he ambled beside me, head and ears up and interested. Gypsy trotted ahead and loped back again over and over to make sure we were coming. She seemed happy we were starting back out again, and her enthusiasm was contagious. I started to feel good to be getting back on the road, too.

At the end of the driveway, we turned west on Route 54 once again. Along the shoulder of the road, little kangaroo rats popped in and out of view. They were so comical in their jumpy movements and always traveled in gangs or families—I never saw just one.

After a few miles, Gypsy stopped and gazed back behind us. A minute later, a familiar white pickup slowly passed and pulled to the shoulder a short distance ahead. Reid got out and walked toward us, a can of Dr. Pepper in his hand. Gypsy danced around trying to get his attention, but he was looking up, smiling at me.

“I wanted to see how you were feeling and say goodbye again,” he said.

I jumped down and let Rainy graze. Reid and I sat on the tailgate of his truck as I drank the soda he’d brought me. Gypsy jumped into the bed of the truck and happily squeezed between us, her tongue hanging out. We just let time go slow and the sun shine down on all of us.

But Reid had to get back to work, and I had some riding to do. I watched as he climbed back in his pickup and pulled away, his arm waving out the window.

I felt something on my hand and looked down to see a ladybug had landed near the reins. Remembering a childhood game called, “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” I made a wish and blew a soft breath toward her. Her miniature wings lifted and she flew off as I made my wish to somehow see Reid again.

Not once, ever, on that blissful sunny morning, did it occur to me to think of that old adage: Be careful what you wish for.

OH NO

Maybe my “sick days” were a needed respite from the road, or the brief but pleasant time with Reid was a nice way to finally put the hurt from Mike behind me. Maybe the humidity wasn’t quite as bad as it had been in prior weeks. Maybe it was that Kansas was roughly the halfway point between New York and California. Whatever the reason, I enjoyed myself in the simplest little ways as we made our way deeper into the state.

I liked Kansas. There was an airiness and openness that pleased my senses. Green grass was abundant any time I wanted to let Rainy graze, and water was easy to find. I rode along watching birds fly by and the swirls of road dust, and waving at the friendly folks who passed us. I felt like Rainy, Gypsy, and I fit in well, moving slowly under the wide blue sky.

In the first weeks of our trek, if I caught the weather report on someone’s television, I’d look away. I couldn’t bear to see a map of the whole United States. The amount of land we had to cross was so vast it was intimidating to think about. So I focused on small steps. I’d always known that any one thing could end our trip. The slightest injury to my horse or myself, for example, and the journey would be over. But now we were in Kansas. We’d ridden halfway across the country! I could actually picture us making it the whole way.

We left a little town called Gas City early in the morning and headed west, still on the long straight 54. The land was level but it was quite hot, so we made frequent rest stops during the day. I removed the saddle and checked Rainy all over each time.

In the tiny crossroads town called Piqua (pronounced Pic-way) we turned down a lane toward a diner just off the main road. I tied Rainy out back, and when I pulled the saddle off, my breath caught sharply. To my horror, a big ugly swelling had started to grow near Rainy’s withers.

I reached to touch it, but Rainy skittered away. The area was round and as big as a golf ball. I could feel heat all around it.

Rainy was hurt.

My horse had never taken a lame step. The whole morning that hurtful thing must have been growing. And he just kept on walking.

Desperate to do anything to help Rainy, I pulled everything off him, carelessly scattering my belongings over the ground. I stroked his neck, and whispered to him that I’d make it right. Then I hurried into the diner, using my tee shirt to smear at the tears that streaked my face.

Inside, a waitress let me use the phone, and I pulled out the scrap of paper with the name and phone number of Tom and Barb Kee. They were our contact that night in Yates Center, a little farther west. My plan, or I should say my hope, was to ask if they could help me get a truck and trailer to get Rainy to a vet. I was so upset and worried that I didn’t care that it was presumptuous thinking that someone I’d never met would go to the trouble of stopping whatever they were doing in the middle of their day, hitching up their trailer, and hauling some stranger to a vet. It was the only hope I had. I dialed over and over, but no one answered the phone at the Kees’ farm.

Yates Center was about twelve miles away, not much of a ride for us under normal circumstances, but Rainy was done working—done carrying me, done carrying our packs, done with all of it, for now.

I gathered up a pile of gear that I would have hated to lose—my packs, my camera, things from home—and with my arms wrapped around it, I went back into the diner and asked if I could leave it somewhere safe. I had no idea if I would make it back, or if someone would steal it, or if the staff would throw it out. But the waitress seemed nice. I left everything.

I hoped walking was okay for Rainy as long as there was no pressure near the sore and no weight on his back. I took hold of his neck rope, and we started off, side by side. Some instinct told me to try and make it to the Kees’—I didn’t know them, but I simply had nowhere else to go.

Rainy kept his head close to me; I stopped often to pet his neck and rub his head. “I’m sorry, buddy,” I kept telling him. “I am so sorry.”

THE WORRIED WALK

Each time I checked the swelling on Rainy it made my stomach queasy. Gypsy, aware of the somberness of this trek, stayed close. All I could think of was helping my brave, kind horse. And the fact that the steps we were taking along Route 54 could well be the last of our journey.

I wasn’t sure how many miles we’d traveled when I saw a figure in the distance. The shimmer of heat off the pavement made everything a little distorted. When at last we reached the woman on the roadside, she looked me in the eyes and said simply, “Missy. I’ve been looking for you.”

Amid tears, it all spilled out at once: “Rainy’s hurt. I need to have a vet look at him. I think maybe the trip is over.”

Barb Kee somehow absorbed it all: how far we’d come, what the trip meant to me, how I felt about my horse. Worry furrowed her brow and showed in her warm, open face. She unselfconsciously laid her arm across my shoulders and said, “Let’s get you all to our place. We’ll find my husband. He’ll know what to do.”

Then Barb Kee, Rainy, Gypsy, and I finished the walk together to the farm on Prairie Road.

TWISTS AND TURNS

Tom Kee was a lifelong rancher and farmer. I watched his face while he examined the lump on Rainy’s back. I could tell he didn’t like the look of it, although he didn’t say a word. He just quietly filled up a trough with cold water from a hose, and we both stood there wordlessly while Rainy drank.

“Do you have a vet that would come out and see him?” I asked, guessing the state of things.

“Usually, around here, you haul animals to the vet clinic instead of the vet coming to you,” Tom explained. He looked at Barb, and then they both looked at me. “But why don’t you stay here tomorrow? I’ll come in early from the fields, and we’ll hitch up the stock trailer and haul Rainy out to see the vet in Eureka.”

“That’s a very kind offer,” I mumbled, struggling to control my emotions. “Thank you so much.” It was all I could think of to say.

I checked on Rainy frequently throughout the evening. Barb asked if I wanted to call home, but I didn’t want to call anyone. I was unable to say out loud what I feared: that maybe I’d permanently injured Rainy…and maybe our journey was finished.

I tried to recall any little sign of discomfort or injury from my horse that I might have missed. I should have known. Rainy and Gypsy and I, we had this bond. Why didn’t I sense something was happening to Rainy? Why didn’t I catch it in time?

I rose very early in the morning. Tom was already at the kitchen table, feeding scraps of food to Gypsy. After breakfast, he hitched up his stock trailer, and we headed to Eureka.

Rainy stood quietly for Dr. Drogey’s exam. “I’m not really sure what this is,” the veterinarian admitted—a frustrating thing to hear. “A hematoma, an unusual bursitis of the withers, or an abscess? In many cases it’s worse to biopsy it because it can increase your chances of infection.” The doc paused, then: “Let’s get him on antibiotics right away. I want him on bute to make him comfortable, and also let’s start him on an anti-inflammatory. Can you hose the area with cold water, twice a day for fifteen minutes, then put some DMSO on it?”

I nodded my head yes.

“I’d like to see him after a few days on the meds,” Dr. Drogey said. “How ‘bout you bring him back on Saturday? I’ll be able to tell you a little more then.”

Tom nodded in agreement, as if the plan sounded fine to him. He even made an appointment for Saturday before we loaded Rainy back in the trailer.

I turned to the man. “I can’t ask you to put us up for the rest of the week.”

He brushed off my concern. “Sure you can. Let’s see what the next few days do for your horse.”

But Saturday didn’t yield good news.

“I don’t think this is going to heal up right away,” Dr. Drogey said after re-examining Rainy.

I felt heat rising within me as I struggled to hold back my emotions.

“It’s better…but not better enough to have much weight and pressure on him yet.” The vet looked at me and my watering eyes. “He’s not in any pain now. Keep up with the hosing and the meds. It just needs time to heal.” He smiled and tried to look reassuring. But I was devastated.

I turned away, stroking Rainy and silently crying. I heard Tom ask, “How long would we need to treat him and let him rest until he’s right again?” It didn’t escape my notice that Tom said “we.” He was just being nice, I was sure, not wanting to let the vet know that I was kind of homeless. Homeless with a horse and a dog.

Dr. Drogey considered the question. “Well, if you keep hosing the area, keep him on the meds for the whole course, I’d say three, four weeks?”

I wanted to wail. The doctor had no idea how far we were from home and how we couldn’t just stay there waiting, hoping Rainy would heal. Tom had told him we were on a long-distance trip, and I’d summarized a few details: our saddle and our gear and the daily miles. But Dr. Drogey didn’t ask more than that, and I was so emotional, I couldn’t bring myself to explain more.

Tom and Dr. Drogey walked to the vet’s office, giving me time alone with Rainy and my sadness.

Could I find a job here? Get an apartment? Or could I find a field or a patch of woods for the tent and make it our home for a month, like a squatter? Anything was better than thinking about giving up on the trip, when we’d come so far. But I also knew those were pretty unrealistic scenarios.

I tried to bury my emotions as I went to pay our bill, only to find that Tom had already paid it. He waved aside my tearful thanks.

I sat in silent despair in the truck cab while Tom slowly backed the rig around and pulled back out onto the road. I had my head turned to the window and the passing prairie when Tom spoke in his slow and easy drawl. “We want you to stay with us.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” I protested.

“You didn’t ask.” He smiled. “I asked you.”

I looked at him. Who offered to put up a stranger for one night, then happily welcomed her into his home for a month, animals and all? “What about Barb?” I asked.

Tom shook his head, that little smile still there. “I called her from Dr. Drogey’s office when we got the news that Rainy’d be laid up for a while. She said to bring you on home.”

A glimmer of hope began to grow. “I’ll stay out in the barn,” I said. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

Tom laughed. “Oh, Mama wouldn’t hear of that.”

“I’ll help you guys. On the farm, in the house, anything. Anything that needs doing around your place, I’ll do.” I wiped away tears again.

He just shook his head. “When we get back, call your folks and tell ‘em you’ve got a new home for a while. We’re gonna make a Kansas girl out of you.”

TOM AND BARB

When we pulled into the horseshoe driveway, Barb came out of the house, and as soon as I was out of the cab, she threw her arms around me, exclaiming, “I’m so glad you’re staying!”

Barb led me inside and down the hall to the room Gypsy and I had been sleeping in for the past few days. “Let’s get this room fixed up like you’re staying a while.” She started pulling things from drawers and pushing aside boxes in the closet.

I realized what a good feeling it was to know there was a place for me. They were simple things—a drawer to put my clothes in and my own bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub—but they were things that were missing when you lived on the road. I’d adjusted to the traveling life. But the feeling of having a home of sorts, however temporary, was a comfort.

Barb reminded me it was time to tell my folks about Rainy and the change in our travel plans, so I got on the phone. My mom, ever-organized and practical, made a list of what she’d pack and send to me for a few more weeks in Kansas. Both my parents, originally so opposed to my trip, said, “Do what you have to do. We’ll do whatever we can from this end.”

During a rambling conversation that evening, I told Barb about meeting Reid.

“Well, honey, you should call him,” she urged. “He might like to know you’re here for a while. Fort Scott might seem far to you, but by car it’s only an hour or so.”

The next night, Reid’s white pickup turned into the Kees’ yard, and Barb and I bumped into each other in our hurry to run away from the window, so we wouldn’t be caught watching for him. I gave him a minute to walk to the house before stepping outside. Gypsy squeezed out the screen door behind me and trotted past, hurrying toward her favorite vet. I couldn’t help the big smile on my face; Reid had a happy grin, too. He strode right over and gave me a big hug, and for a second I enjoyed his clean, fresh-air smell.

We walked together to the corral so he could look at Rainy, and I poured out all my worries on the way. Like the rest of us, Reid was confused by the exact nature of the swelling.

“Gosh, that’s an odd-looking thing,” he said as he touched and probed the swollen area. “But he doesn’t act like it’s painful right now. And he looks good.”

I was glad Reid wasn’t overly bleak about my horse’s condition, and pretty soon we were joking in an easy manner. I remembered why I was so glad he’d driven out to see me. Reid patted Rainy affectionately, and we turned back to the house so he could meet Tom and Barb, Gypsy jogging in front of us as if she had to show us the way.

Tom and Reid shook hands and started right in, talking about farming and livestock. Barb caught my eye, mouthing, “He’s cute!” with a silly grin on her face. The sun was setting big and orange on the grasslands outside the kitchen window. For a minute, in this new place, it felt just like a real home and a real family.

HAYING

When I overheard Tom talking to Barb about how he’d be working in the hay fields the next day, I thought, Here’s a way I can help repay their kindness. There’s always room for another hand at haying time.

“I’ll help!” I interrupted. Tom and Barb stopped their conversation and looked at me.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Tom said, shaking his head. “My uncle drives the tractor, and we got a couple boys working for us, but thanks anyway.”

“Seriously,” I persisted. “I’ve been helping put in hay since I was like fourteen. That’s how I earn some of my horse board back home.”

Tom and Barb exchanged a glance but didn’t argue further.

In the morning I was up extra early to see to my animals, and Tom, who had already been out in the fields, came back to pick me up.

“I really wish you wouldn’t try haying with the boys,” he tried once more as he drove south on the gravel road toward the hay fields.

“I’ll be fine!” I assured him.

Tom pulled the pickup off the road and onto the mown field where a tractor took slow turns as bales of hay shot into the wagon that lumbered behind it. The tractor stopped here and there, allowing one of the four or five young men nearby to jump up in the wagon and throw the bales into a neat formation so more could be loaded on top. When they noticed Tom’s truck, they all stopped and stared as we got out and walked toward them.

Tom had his hand on my arm when we reached the crew. “This is Missy,” he said. “She’s gonna help, if you boys don’t mind.” Tom turned to me. “I’ll be back for you in a while.”

There was an awkward silence after Tom left. I climbed up on the hay wagon. The scent of the cut hay and the feel of the warm sun were intoxicating. Standing on the low row of bales, I said cheerfully, “I can stack if you guys want.”

The boys exchanged glances. It seemed they didn’t know what to think of me. They looked wiry and strong but very young. I could tell I’d changed the dynamic they’d established working together. I felt their discomfort.

The one with a shock of dark hair falling on his forehead finally spoke, stuttering, “Uh, well, we almost got this field picked up. We’ll just be taking it to the barn soon.”

Well, I knew that. I knew it got stored when the wagon was full. Maybe that meant they wanted me to help when we got to the barn. The boys shuffled back to what they were doing. They had a system in place, and they stacked the last of the bales without offering a way for me to join in. I took a seat high on the bales and held on to the wooden slats of the wagon when we took a wobbly turn and headed to the barn.

The guys jumped up in the wagon for the ride back. They ignored me as they picked up what appeared to be an ongoing conversation. The topic had them fired up, and they argued and debated with fierce enthusiasm. Not about girls or sports. About Cars, with a capital C. I had no idea that a topic like Ford versus Chevy could inspire such passion.

The fellow who’d shyly spoken to me was apparently a Ford man. He brushed the hair from his face with the back of his hand while his buddy taunted him, “You know what Ford stands for, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Fix Or Repair Daily!” the blonde kid answered gleefully.

Before the one who liked Fords could think of a comeback, one of the other boys spoke up: “No way, man. I heard Ford stands for Found On Road Dead!”

The two Chevy guys had a hearty guffaw.

My Ford guy was flustered, and struggled with a retort of his own. “Oh, yeah?” he tried. “Well, Chevy stands for…” He sputtered, obviously making it up as he went. “Chevy stands for Ching Chong Eck…” and he sort of faded out then, not sure what to do with it.

“’The hell does that mean?” one of the others boy asked.

“It’s cuz everything on a Chevy is made in Japan or China or something!” Everyone, me included, laughed a little at his attempted comeback.

The banter lasted all the way to the barn, but up in the loft, everyone got to work. It was hot, hay dust floated in beams of sunlight, and the roof was high overhead, where the bales dropped off the hay elevator. Again, the crew didn’t seem to want my help. Again, I insisted I could do it. Finally the blonde one sighed.

“Okay.” He gestured to me and stepped away from the bale he’d been about to grasp.

As I went to grab the bale, I noticed for the first time that there were wires, not twine, holding it together, and there were three, not two. It suddenly looked mighty big compared to the bales I was used to. I couldn’t get my hands around all three wires, so I grabbed two of them, and attempted to heave it over to the guy waiting to stack them.

I couldn’t move the bale. At all. I thought these kids were playing a trick on me. They’d weighed it down with something. I planted my feet and got myself mentally psyched and tried again. The effort lifted my heels from the ground and all I managed was to move it a few meager inches. On my third try, I pushed and pulled and dragged the bale to the guy who was waiting to throw it along the line. He took it without making eye contact and spared me whatever he, and no doubt the others, were thinking.

I continued to slow the previously smooth-running operation as I attempted a few more times to drag the monstrous bales over to the line-thrower. It must have been painful to watch, as they all looked away and stopped the casual joking that had previously lightened the mood. I was sweating like I never had before. My arms and legs were shaking. Finally, one of the guys mercifully asked me to do something else—a job I think he made up, out of pity or frustration. I was directed to stand by the hay elevator and make sure the bales were on straight as they made their way up the rattling machine. Even just standing there, my arms ached.

When Tom arrived, looking for me, I climbed up in the cab with him, still sweaty and trembling. He pulled out silently, waiting for me to speak first.

“I couldn’t even lift one bale!” I admitted, baffled. “I really have helped with haying so many times!”

“What does one of your bales at home weigh?” Tom asked, turning the wheel as we headed for home.

“Depending on the baler and stuff, like, forty pounds.” I measured with my hands in front of me the approximate size of the bales I was used to.

Tom laughed in his friendly way. “Well, there you go. Our three-wire bales are at least twice that long and weigh more than three times what yours do. I’ve never seen a bale of hay from New York, but I’d say that explains your problem right there.” He chuckled again. “I was wondering why you were talking like you were gonna throw those bales around so easy. It’s hard work for anyone, even the men we got.”

I hadn’t accomplished anything that day except to look silly. I reminded myself to listen and look a little more carefully, out here in Kansas.

DAYS

Reid and I went on dates. Barb and I talked and laughed all the time. Gypsy developed an attachment to Tom and followed him around the farm. Rainy grazed in his private pasture and stretched flat out in the sun when the mood hit him. I ran errands for Barb in town, and the people I saw greeted me and Gypsy by name. There were many connections, large and small, that made up everyday life, and time passed in a pleasant way.

Reid invited me to visit the clinic in Fort Scott where he and Dr. Durling worked and hopefully be of some help on a farm call where he was vaccinating and tagging a whole herd of calves. When we arrived at the farm, a small group of men were waiting, dressed in overalls, and drinking coffee from thermoses.

“This is Missy,” Reid introduced me when we got out. “She’s the one you may have heard of, riding her horse across the country. She’s sticking around these parts a little longer than originally planned.”

The men were friendly, and some indicated they knew my story from the news. They joked with Reid while he prepared his veterinary instruments. I was the only female, and I wondered whether they would want my help, but it was a large herd, and Reid had said, the more hands around, the easier and faster it would go.

It was soon clear that everyone had a job. Two of the men wove into the nervous herd and cut one calf away from the others, driving him into the cattle chute. Another hand slammed the gate shut while one big guy wrapped his arms around the protesting calf, keeping him pretty immobile. Reid drew blood, got the syringe with the vaccine into the muscle, and shot a tag, like a pierced earring, into the calf’s ear. I stood near Reid and recorded the calf’s ear tag number, vaccinations, and the number on the label of his tube of blood. Reid explained this was part of the work required by the government to prevent outbreaks that could harm livestock and the food and dairy products the country depended on.

Although I’d never heard a farmer or a rancher or a cowboy say they disliked their work, I had to think that people who did this kind of labor every day might not describe it as “fun.” Me, I was having a great time. The men managed to joke and laugh a lot as we moved through the herd.

At midday, we headed for the farmhouse, where we left our muddy, manure-caked boots out by the back door and took a seat at the kitchen table. I figured they probably took this break at the same time every day, because it got them out of the sun when it was at its highest and hottest point.

As we ate lunch, the guys talked nonstop about something they called “Days.” I was confused until I figured out it was their “shorthand” for Days of Our Lives, an afternoon soap opera that they discussed fervently. It seemed everyone at the table had an opinion about the show: who belonged with whom and who was up to no good. The biggest, gruffest fellow in the group kept saying, “I like that Kayla. She’s my pick.”

For some reason that got to me. I wanted to laugh with joy. Joy for the dirt on my boots… and for being reminded that people are forever full of surprises.

KANSAS TIME

We had another checkup with Dr. Drogey, and he was pleased with Rainy’s progress. With my desire to continue our trip in mind, he suggested I consider getting a pack animal to share Rainy’s load. I pushed the suggestion to the back of my mind. He also recommended that I begin riding Rainy bareback so that he maintained his fitness in the hopes we would be able to continue on our trek.

It became my habit each evening to take my bridle from the peg in the barn, lead Rainy up to the back steps of the house, and climb onto his back for a ramble. Gypsy would leap around happily as we headed out. It was unusual to see even one vehicle as we wandered the unmarked dirt roads that crisscrossed the prairie. On our first ride, we found ourselves back at the field where I was bested by the giant bales of hay. Another evening, we made our way to Tom’s Uncle Poe’s farm. West of town was a “hanging tree” where the last man was hung a hundred years before for rustling cattle in Woodson County. But one discovery in particular got me thinking. It was on a road just east of the Kees’ place, where we came upon an old-looking stone wall, complete with a heavy door made of thick wood and black iron, built into the ground, as solid as if it grew up from the earth. I guessed it was a tornado shelter, but when I asked Barb about it, she said it was a fort “left over from Indian-fighting days,” and that much of it still stood, intact and little-altered since the days of the frontier.

I’d driven Tom’s truck and Barb’s car around the area, running errands for them, and Reid and I had driven back roads on our adventures together, but it was the ritual of my peaceful evening rides with Rainy and Gypsy that made me feel close to and familiar with the prairie around us. I loved the land in Kansas. I felt like we were part of the place now, much the same as its history, the smell of fresh-cut hay, and the dusky twilight.

PHONE CALL

Tom, Barb, and I sat in the living room one night, watching Dallas. Like Days of Our Lives, the show was something of a ritual in the area, although the reception was poor and the picture fuzzy. The phone rang, and Tom answered it, turning his back to me and Barb, purposely saying little tidbits in a louder voice, though he pretended not to notice we were listening.

“Yep, she’s here all right. Yep, she’s the one,” he said. Barb and I looked at each other, wondering which of us was the “she” he was referring to.

“Well, that sounds mighty interesting…. Uh-huh. I don’t know…. She might…. Is that right? Well, whaddya know.” He chuckled.

Barb and I were like two little kids, dying to know what was up. But Tom said goodbye and settled back down in his chair, slowly picking up his paper and shaking it, then holding it so we couldn’t see his face.

Barb didn’t last one minute of the game. “Well?” she demanded immediately.

Still behind his newspaper, Tom said innocently, “What?”

“Who was that on the phone?” Barb asked.

“My friend.”

“What friend?”

“Arlo.”

“Well, what did he want?”

“To talk to me.”

“What do you mean? What did he want to talk to you about?”

“Stuff.”

I could have sworn Barb was about to jump up and rip the paper from his hands, though she was laughing, too. “That man!” she said when Tom finally put his newspaper down, his own eyes crinkling with laughter.

“Arlo called because he heard someone at our place might be looking for a mule,” he explained. It took a minute for me to realize he was referring to me. Was I looking for a mule? Then I remembered the veterinarian’s suggestion about considering a pack animal. The small-town grapevine had done its work.

“Fellow Arlo knows down in Fall River has a little mule for sale,” Tom continued. “I told him I’d ask Missy if she’d be interested in going to take a look.”

I hadn’t taken the suggestion about a pack animal seriously. Rainy, Gypsy, and I were such a well-matched team, I was hesitant to disturb the balance. On the other hand, if it might help Rainy, I knew I should look into it.

I looked at Tom. “How much do they want?” I asked.

“One hundred and twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “I figured we could go look at her tomorrow afternoon, after the fields are done, if you want to.”

One hundred and twenty-five dollars? Where I came from, no working equine of any kind would be priced that low. Maybe animals were cheaper in the Midwest. Or maybe just mules? I’d never been around a mule, but I was good with horses, and how different could a mule be from a horse?

“Okay,” I agreed with a shrug. “Let’s go have a look at her then.”

THREE SIMPLE WORDS

Old Yeller, Tom’s mustard-colored Ford truck, had stock racks built onto the back—a tall framework that enclosed the bed of the pickup like a small cattle chute. The tailgate was converted to a ramp. Farmers commonly used such a setup to transport livestock without hauling a trailer around.

The stock racks rattled as we rode over dusty back roads on the way to Fall River to look at the mule. Charley Pride played on the radio. You couldn’t see above the top of the cornstalks, they were so high, and the narrow roads we drove were like channels cut through the fields. When I looked out the back window, I saw a long dust plume trailing behind us.

The Yohos had the mule for sale, and their home was a pretty little place. A few large shade trees cooled a large fenced lot where I could make out several animals. Mrs. Frank Yoho (she introduced herself in the old-fashioned way, using her husband’s name) greeted us.

“I guess you came to see Sweetie,” she said, leading us through a gate to the lot.

Sweetie, apparently, was the mule, and Sweetie, apparently, was hard to catch. Mrs. Yoho was armed with a can of 7-Up and a bag of licorice—“The mule’s favorite,” she explained. Sweetie, apparently, had a sweet tooth.

Mrs. Yoho was soon haltering a dark little beast and leading her up to us, and I got a good look at her.

The mule was about twelve, maybe thirteen hands high—like a decent-size pony. Nothing described her color as well as “dark chocolate.” She didn’t have a speck of white, just rich, deep dark brown with a hint of dappling on her hindquarters. What you noticed most, of course, were her ears. Magnificent and long, like royalty among equine ears, they stood tall at attention as the little mule focused her gaze on us, and we sized each other up. I reached my hand, palm down, to her. She ignored it.

I was at a loss. What kind of questions did you ask about a prospective pack mule? With my head still in the horse world, all I could think to say was, “Is she broke to ride?”

Mr. Frank Yoho had joined us, and in unison, he and his wife answered, “Sure.” Without hesitation, Frank tossed the lead rope around Sweetie’s neck and tied it on the other side of the halter, threw a leg over and was on her back. Frank was a large man, and this was a little mule, but the weight didn’t appear to bother her at all.

Frank gave a cluck, and using the lead like a direct rein, turned the long-eared animal in a few circles, brought her to a stop, then clucked again until she went off into a perky, cute trot. His feet hung mere inches from the ground.

Frank jumped off. “Fetch me a two-by-four from the barn,” he called to his wife. He turned back to me and Tom. “She’s a coon-huntin’ mule. I got her from Arkansas on a trade.”

“Coon-huntin’ mule?” I repeated in the form of a question.

“In Arkansas and other places, they raise these mules to go hunt raccoons at night. They can see better in the dark than horses do,” he explained. “When they’re out huntin’ and come to a wire fence, the hunter takes off his coat and drapes it over the top wire to make it more visible. The mules jump right over, easy as pie. I don’t know any horse that’ll do that, especially in the dark.”

Mrs. Yoho returned with the board. “Grab that end there,” she said to Tom.

They stood, the two-by-four horizontal held pretty high between them. Frank led Sweetie up to the makeshift fence. She was a pudgy thing, her belly protruding roundly on both sides, and the board was as high as her neck—a height she was unlikely to be able to jump over, in my opinion.

Frank tugged on the lead and clucked yet again, and from practically a standstill right in front of the board, the little mule popped clear over it. My jaw dropped, Tom chuckled, and Frank had Sweetie jump it from the other direction. Mrs. Yoho and Tom raised the board higher and again, up and over, no problem for the mule.

I was amazed. A horse would have to have the strides and the pace just right, but this mule just stood there and popped over the board like a cat would jump up on a dresser.

Everyone turned to look at me as if to say, Well, what do you think?

All the practical things I should have considered and asked about, like whether she had experience being packed, if she ponied off other horses, and whether her feet were in good shape, came nowhere near my mind. I didn’t ask how she might deal with the road, traffic, or bad weather. When my mouth opened, all that came out were three simple words.

“I want her.”

A MEETING

Tom had somehow guessed the outcome of our visit and had come prepared to pay for the mule. I promise to pay him back. He just chuckled. With little fuss, we loaded what was now my mule onto Tom’s truck to take her home to Yates Center. She walked right up the ramp, showing no hesitation about going with us. As Tom cranked Old Yeller around, Sweetie turned her dark face once and looked at the home she was leaving. Then she found a comfortable spot up toward the front of the truck bed, just on the other side of the cab window. Her little mule muzzle rode just inches from us, between Tom’s shoulder and mine, the whole way home.

This mule was so docile about leaving the Yohos’ place that I was totally unprepared for her reaction when we turned into the drive at the Kees’. Suddenly, she transformed into a pacing, pawing dervish, causing the truck to rock. With her face just inches from our ears, she let loose the loudest, most ungodly noise I’d ever heard. It couldn’t be called a bray, or a whinny, or anything else I was familiar with. Tom and I both about jumped out of our seats.

I felt a rush of worry. Was this mule doped up with tranquilizers that were now wearing off? Was she actually a crazy, uncontrollable animal?

No. It was just that she had caught her first glimpse of Rainy.

The mule’s strange noise got Rainy’s attention, and we could see his head over the pasture gate, looking our way. Sweetie was frantic in the back. I was afraid to let the ramp down or try to grab hold of her halter. Why was she acting like this? What if she attacked Rainy?

Tom undid the bolts on the back of the truck, and sure enough, as soon as he started to lower the ramp, the mule charged out, almost knocking both of us down. Tom and I both grabbed for her lead rope, but even with the two of us holding tight, we could barely keep Sweetie under control as she pulled and made her weird noises and pointed those long ears straight at Rainy. She dragged the two of us toward the pen.

Just as I began to fear I’d bought a crazy mule and brought her to the Kees’ farm, Sweetie yanked the lead we both had a hold of out of our hands and charged off in a surprising burst of speed. Tom looked down at his brush-burned hands and then up at me.

“Have you considered any other name for her?” he asked slowly in his laidback Midwestern drawl. “I don’t think Sweetie suits her, do you?”

The mule made it across the yard in a flash and stood pressed against the pen’s gate, nuzzling Rainy through the bars. She was perfectly calm again, the rapid in-and-out of her breathing the only hint of her mighty rampage. After a few minutes of snuffling, muzzle to muzzle, Rainy calmly returned to his grazing.

I was getting my first inkling that dealing with mules might not be exactly like dealing with horses.

GETTING TO KNOW HER

“What are you going to call her?” Barb wanted to know. A new name for the mule had become a frequent topic of discussion. Barb and I both happened to like the name Amanda, and we just started calling her that. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was an old tradition to give mules a human name.

I figured I had my work cut out for me, getting the little mule used to carrying packs and accustomed to dealing with unfamiliar situations on the road. But once she had a few days to absorb how steady and unflappable Rainy was, it all came easily.

The first day I tried ponying her she fell into place a little behind Rainy as he walked. Within a few days, she was venturing out, exploring the roads with us. As Rainy moved forward smart and steady, that’s what Amanda did, too. It was like she had decided that being with Rainy was her life’s calling. If I was going to throw some packs on her and ask her to walk a thousand miles, so be it. I marveled at my luck in finding a mule who was likely the exception, not the rule.

In learning what I could about mules, I read that they were known for “picking out” who they liked and who they didn’t. She loved Rainy. That was clear. Luckily, she seemed to have decided she liked me okay, and Tom, too.

But Amanda was convinced that Reid was up to no good.

Reid was what Barb called “the last of a dying breed.” He was a true gentleman. He always came in and visited with Tom and Barb when he came to pick me up for a date. When we went to the movies, he blushed when he had to say The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas when purchasing the tickets. But a hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar mule brought out another side of him.

Reid kindly offered to vaccinate Amanda. But Amanda decided she didn’t care for needles. Or vets. Or Reid. It took me, Tom, Barb, Reid, and a solid steel livestock chute to get a needle in her, and Reid was rewarded with a hard knock to his arm against the bars of the chute. It was then that we heard the first “Shit!” and “Damn mule!” We’d just discovered that the mannerly vet could swear. Amanda kicked, tossed her head, slammed against the bars, and pinned her ears. And Reid cussed with the best of ‘em. Barb and I kept glancing at each other across Amanda’s humped brown back, biting our lips, trying our best not to laugh.

TIME IS OURS

I have always dreamed in equine. And in sky blue and grass green. They say girls imagine Prince Charming or the perfect wedding, but I belonged to a different tribe of women. I never had a fantasy car, a job in mind, or a wish for anything that didn’t involve horses, dogs, and wide-open spaces. In the waning days of my time at the Kees’, with Rainy healing and Amanda becoming part of our little family, my time was filled with contentment. I rode Rainy bareback, leading Amanda along as Gypsy ran in the fields. The land seemed to go on forever, and the time and place was ours. I had friends and family who supported me and wished me well. I had the sun on my shoulders and the breeze in my face. When I looked at the view through Rainy’s familiar ears in front, and looked back at the smart face and long ears of Amanda behind us, I knew I was in the middle of an abundance of riches.

We’d followed the advice of two vets. Rainy had healed even better than hoped for. Reid was impressed—and told me so.

“You’ve really done right by him,” he said. “A lot of people would have kept him on pain meds and put him back to work. Giving him as much time as you have has worked wonders.”

His compliment meant the world to me. I’d done what could be done to assure Rainy was ready to return to our walk across the country. My dream was alive, thank goodness.

That meant the time was coming that I would have to say goodbye.

GONE DOWN THE ROAD

With Dr. Drogey’s approval of Rainy’s condition, things went into motion. Drawers were emptied. Saddlebags were packed. Reid and I made plans for one more date—we just drove around the prairie roads we so enjoyed. When it was time for him to go, I acted like it was fine, that it was all part of the deal. From the dark at the Kees’ back door, I watched his truck drive away.

Barb stayed home from work the day before we left and helped me pack. We talked companionably, like always, laughing a little, too. Then she pulled off her glasses and wiped at her eyes. I got a lump in my throat and my vision was swimming. She pulled me into a spontaneous hug, knowing we didn’t have to say a word.

Leaving Yates Center, Kansas, was almost scarier than starting out from home the first day of the trip. I now had another animal with me, which added a whole new complication to our travels. And I had the nagging worry related to Rainy’s injury: What caused it? Would it resurface? But Tom, Barb, and others believed in us. They believed we could ride the rest of the way across the United States. It was time for me to live in the moment again—to put my worries aside and do the best I could.

I said goodbye to Tom and Barb at the Richardsons’ farm out along Route 54 in Eureka. It was a ways away from Yates Center, and they had driven out that far with the idea that somehow it would make saying goodbye a little easier. It didn’t. I almost couldn’t bear watching Tom, a man who spent his words carefully, struggling to keep everything inside. He kept his eyes down while Barb and I hugged, making no attempt to keep the tears at bay. Tom stood apart from us, quietly petting Amanda and then Rainy—the animal he’d helped care for every day for the last four weeks.

Few words were said. We all held each other tight, then Tom took Barb’s elbow, and they walked to the truck. Tom came back to us once more and said something quiet in Rainy’s ear, then he climbed into the cab beside his wife.

I waved and waved until they were gone, down the road.

MORNING STAR

The Richardsons gave me a little space after I said goodbye to Tom and Barb. I went into their barn and buried my face in Rainy’s mane. I didn’t know what else to do to fight the emptiness in me.

I don’t know how much time passed before Mrs. Richardson came in and gently asked me if I’d like to see some of their ranch. I pulled myself away from Rainy, grateful for the distraction.

In one pasture, big hairy buffalo grazed, one or two with calves by their sides. The emerald green land rolled out behind them. It made me smile. Buffalo. You had to love Kansas.

I got up in the morning before true light, and Gypsy and I walked to the barn together to get ready for the next step of our journey. Rainy and Amanda turned their bright faces toward me. The sky in the east was beginning its gradual awakening, the edge of the horizon in shades of pink and purple. In the western sky, I saw one bright, shining star—bright enough to be visible even as this part of the world turned slowly toward the sun. It was the brightest morning star I’d ever seen, highlighted by the deep vivid color of the sky. I stared upward, taking it as our sign. I reminded myself to remember to look at the beauty in the land, in the sky, and all around as we moved on. I felt many things inside me, but I also believed this, too: All would be well.

The road west was waiting.