The Mill River Recluse Read Online Free

about three , Patrick thought, but its build already evidenced pure bloodlines. He walked closer. The horse tossed its forelock out of its eyes and eagerly accepted the sugar cubes. It was a blood-bay with fine, straight legs and deep shoulders. Its rich, red coat blended gradually into black legs and contrasted sharply with a thick black mane and tail. The horse nuzzled Patrick’s hand for more sugar, and, finding none, snorted again and struck its front hoof against the stall door. “You’re a feisty one,” Patrick said, and rubbed the colt’s forehead. He smiled grudgingly to himself. The old barn certainly belied the value of this inhabitant.
    A sudden thump came from behind the straw stack at the end of the aisle, and the pitchfork fell to the floor.
    “Hello?” Patrick asked, startled. “Is someone there?”
    Silence.
    “Patrick!” a voice called from outside the barn. He turned and saw his father and another man standing in the doorway, watching him.
    “Son, this is Sam Hayes,” his father said as Patrick came over to them.
    The stout horse farmer wore dirty overalls and a wide-brimmed hat pushed back off his forehead. His hair was just beginning to show strands of gray, but the deep crevices in his face made Patrick think that he was older than his barn.
    “Mr. Hayes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Patrick said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard that your Morgans are the finest around.”
    “Pleasure’s mine,” Mr. Hayes replied, clasping his hand and obviously pleased by Patrick’s compliment. “I don’t raise as many as I used to, just a few a year now. Quality over quantity, you might say. Plus, there hasn’t been much of a market for ‘em for a few years now. People’ve been pretty hard up.” He paused a moment, looking at Patrick’s fine attire with hopeful eyes. “Your Pop here tells me that you’re the horseman of the family. Well, you can’t go wrong with a Morgan. ‘Course I’m sure you know that. They’re the sturdiest horses you could ever have. Smart, too. An’ their temperament’s usually steady an’ sensible. All my Morgans’ pedigrees go back to Justin Morgan, the foundation stallion. I break ‘em in myself, teach ‘em manners, an’ I don’t sell ‘em ‘til they’re four. Don’t believe a horse is full grown ‘til it’s four, so I keep ‘em ‘til then to be sure they all get a proper start.”
    “You said you had several horses for sale?” Stephen asked.
    “Yep, there are four, two colts an’ two fillies.”
    “I’d prefer a colt,” Patrick said.
    “I’ve got ‘em all in the barn there,” Mr. Hayes said. “I’ll take each one out separately, so you can see how they’re built an’ ride ‘em, if you want. There’s a small paddock on the other side of the barn.” He went into the tack room and emerged carrying one of the old saddles and a saddle pad. “If you could take this around the side,” he continued, handing the tack to Patrick, “I’ll bring the first one out for you.”
    Stephen and Patrick turned and walked around the barn to a circular training paddock adjacent to the pasture. Content to let his son handle the selection, Stephen leaned awkwardly against the fence. Mr. Hayes came out of a rear door of the barn leading a chestnut horse behind him. Patrick set the saddle over the top of the fence and looked closely at the horse. It was a beautiful animal, with conformation much like that of the blood-bay he had seen in the barn. This horse was tan, with a bright white blaze down its forehead and nose.
    The horse wore a bridle with a long rein, and Mr. Hayes stepped to the center of the paddock with the rein in his hand. He shook it gently. The horse began to trot in a circle around him. Its movement was fluid and smooth. A chirrup from Mr. Hayes prompted the horse to canter, tossing its head and swishing its tail. After a few minutes, Mr. Hayes stopped the horse, and Patrick came over to it.
    Mr. Hayes held the colt’s head up