Old San Jose Road follows Soquel Creek up toward the distant blue ridgeline of the Santa Cruz Mountains, winding through narrow canyons full of redwoods and emerging into sunny meadows. Gunner lived at Kristin Griffith's place, in just such a meadow, at the end of a long driveway with a whiteboard fenced pasture running down one side of it. Kristin's horse, a dark brown gelding she called Rebby, raised his head to look at me as I drove in, then kicked up his heels and ran off across his field in an excess of joie de vivre. I smiled as I watched him. Rebby was a "running" Quarter Horse, bred for the track; he had a lean, breedy head and the long, flat-muscled, rangy look of a Thoroughbred. He also had big, soft, friendly eyes like an overgrown retriever, and he loved to be petted. Rebby was another "people" horse. Pulling into Kristin's barnyard, I parked my truck near the fence and Gunner came out of his shed and nickered. Gunner was my horse, a four-year-old Quarter Horse gelding by Mr.
What do You think about Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy Series)?
