Paint the Wind Read Free Page B

tried to look remorseful, but with each breath, her fury expanded like a balloon about to pop.
    â€œMy granddaughter has a vivid imagination, Morgana, but after all, she’s only a child. She will outgrow it. My Gregory was truthful, and Maya will be just like him. Of that you can be certain. Put that box in the trash can inthe alley. I will not have anything related to those filthy beasts or that woman in my house.”
    Morgana walked out with her head high and deliberate purpose in her steps.
    The silence continued until Maya heard the back door click shut.
    â€œYour Saturday library privilege is revoked,” said Grandmother. “And you are excused to your bath.”
    Maya avoided Grandmother’s eyes as she slid from her chair. She walked upstairs, her fists clenching and unclenching. She winced at the thought of losing her only weekly outing, one hour of precious library time supervised by the housekeeper. The Big Book of Horse Facts and The Equine Encyclopedia would have to wait, but it was just as well. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Morgana anyway.
    As Maya took her bath, her thoughts raced. The trash had been collected yesterday, on Thursday. Today was Friday. That left Maya one week to save her horses. As she dressed in her pajamas and robe, she comforted herself by recalling all the housekeepers she’d sabotaged in less time: Kathryn, by sneaking a blue sweatshirt into the washing machine with an all-white load of Grandmother’s delicates; Patricia, by convincing her that Grandmother loved jalapeno peppers in her food; Laura, by assuring her that it wasn’t inappropriate in the least to paint Maya’s nails with bright red polish.
    A wry smile crept onto Maya’s face. One week was plenty of time.

A RTEMISIA SENSED SHE HAD BEEN GONE LONG ENOUGH . She raised her muzzle, and her ears alerted and twitched. Something in the wind felt wrong. An innate urgency told her to return to the protection of her band. She left the birthing area with Klee in tow .
    On the trail, if she shifted in one direction, Klee did the same, his spindly legs mimicking her movement. When he tried to stop to investigate a rock or a clump of greasewood, Artemisia nosed him to keep moving for fear he would become an easy meal for a hungry predator .
    Artemisia led her obedient baby over the rise of a hill and was relieved to see the cluster of horses. She neighed, announcing their arrival. When all heads turned, she walked with slowand regal steps, proud to be bringing home the new addition and comforted by the safety of their numbers .
    Sargent’s alert head leaned in her direction, and he nickered as if to say, “You were missed. Welcome home. And who is this?” He did not rush to Artemisia. Instead, he stood aloof and on guard, keeping his vigilant post as protector .
    Artemisia watched as Georgia came to say hello, making deep, soft nickers. She sniffed the baby with careful curiosity. Klee leaned his muzzle toward her and touched her nose but soon became shy and pulled back toward his mother. Wyeth approached with two-year-old boldness. When he seemed too forceful, Mary intervened and prevented his advances. Then she turned to nuzzle the foal. Artemisia allowed it. She already sensed Mary’s protective nature toward her new brother .
    Artemisia took a few steps away and peed a long stream.Sargent marched over, sniffed the puddle, and covered it with his own stream, mixing their scents to make sure that any other males in the area knew that Artemisia belonged to him .
    Artemisia ambled back to her foal and watched as Sargent came forward to meet his son, his huge body towering over the newborn. No one had taught Klee how to defer to the stallion, but he knew by instinct to pull back his lips and clap his teeth together as if telling his father, “I am young and small. I am not a threat to you. I need your guidance, so please don’t hurt me.” Satisfied with the