Thunder and lightning in a pitch-black sky had been the worst of it. One of those storms that make empty threats. By the time Buddy drew near the stable, he had made up his mind. A light drizzle still fell, but what of it? He was already wet, and Charity’s mama would be worried sick if he didn’t set her mind at ease. The horse had the smell of the stall in his nostrils and showed reluctance when Buddy made him turn. “Giddap, you lazy beast. You ain’t worth your weight in sour oats. Cut dirt, or I’ll trade you for a gasoline engine.” The horse laid back his ears but plodded past the livery door. In no hurry to part with his feed bag, he shivered with irritation while Buddy shivered from the cold. A damp chill had penetrated his bones, and he ached all over. Scraping his knuckles and picking up a splinter on the jagged wood, he groped beneath the seat and found a spare saddle blanket. The stale covering would cause him to smell like the stockyard but might save him from the grippe.
