It
seemed to belong where it was. "Nice," he said. "What kind of finish is
that on there?"
"Nothing much. Linseed oil, thinned some."
"Mighty nice."
"It's beautiful, Tucker."
"I made it for your mother." It was a statement of fact, but it carried
something extra, like the horse. "You probably don't remember Mesquite,
Margery."
"Mesquite--" Her face began to open.
"Must have died when you were about four or five."
"I'm remembering, now."
"Mr. Randolph brought him back for your mom--Helen," he said. "Got him
at a show down south somewhere. He was a quarter horse, Mesquite. From
Oklahoma originally, if I remember right. Damn fine horse." Tucker
tilted his glass for two swallows. "I used to take care of him once in
a while--when the family was away, you know. Well, one day Helen was
out riding and I was walking along. It was in June. The flowers was all
out. Mesquite got to cantering and I run along to keep up. Never forget
it. The flowers all different, blurring together and flowing along like
I was running through a river all different colors. And Helen sitting
up tall--she had hair just like yours, Margery, short and thick, straw
colored, went with her blue eyes." Tucker slowed down. "Well, I had to
do something. I made the horse."
"Mesquite."
"Yep."
"Why didn't you give it to her?"
"It's a long story, I guess. Took me a while to make it. Your mom took
a fancy to Jack.
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