Jolyn Sutherland swung open the rear door of her horse trailer, retreated a safe distance and waited for the explosion. It came right on schedule.
Sinbad, her seventeen year old paint gelding, charged backward out of the trailer, legs thrashing, hooves clattering and sides heaving. He came to stop only when all four feet were firmly planted on the ground—for about two seconds. Jolyn grabbed his dangling lead rope before he trotted off in search of the barn and the barrel of oats he knew was waiting for him.
"That old horse never did trailer worth a lick."
Jolyn looked up to see a familiar face. "Dad!"
"You made it." Milt Sutherland strode toward her. "How was the drive down the mountain?"
"Touch and go in one or two spots. But we managed." Ignoring the ribbons of pain that shot up her right leg, she rushed to meet him, a whinnying Sinbad in tow.
Her father enveloped her in a bear hug and for a brief moment, Jolyn was a little girl again, her big, strong Daddy ma ...
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