“You must be careful around a horse, even a friendly one,” Mr. Peterson was explaining to Samuel as I reached the edge of the yard and found the pair of them examining the hoof of a big tawny workhorse named Scotch. “If you hurt him, even by mistake, he might very well boot you over the hill.”

I watched as Mr. Peterson showed Samuel how to cradle Scotch’s hoof in his left hand so he could clean it with his right. “There, that’s it,” he said, as Samuel carefully dug out a wad of accumulated muck. “You’re born to it.”

Samuel looked up at Mr. Peterson, smiling, and caught sight of me standing at the trailhead, the milk in my hand.

“Took you long enough.” Samuel put down the hoof and straightened up.

“Did a big dog come through here just now?” I asked, but they both shook their heads.

“No,” Mr. Peterson said, glancing over his shoulder and around the yard. “No dog at all.”

“What big dog?” Samuel asked.

“That’s what I want to know,” I said.

“What did it look like?” Mr. Peterson asked, a little worry on his face.

I thought back. “He was . . . rough looking. Brindled. Nervous.”

Mr. Peterson glanced up-mountain, thoughtful, then back at me. “I do believe I’ve seen that dog before. Once or twice. But there’s nothing for him around here.” He turned back to the horse.

“Something wrong with him?” I said.

Mr. Peterson shook his head, not looking at me. “He’s a wild mutt,” he said. “Not a dog you want.”

“No, I meant Scotch.” Though now that I’d been told I wouldn’t want the dog, I found that I did. “I meant is something wrong with Scotch.”

“He’d been favoring his hoof,” Samuel said, in a voice much like Mr. Peterson’s. “But I’ve cleaned it out now.”

As we watched, though, Scotch lifted his sore hoof and rested his weight on just the front edge of it.

“Still lame.” Mr. Peterson pulled the hoof into the light again so he could look more closely.

Samuel peered at it, too, near as he dared. “Is that a thorn?” he said, gently probing with a fingertip until Scotch threw his head back and shifted his weight enough that Mr. Peterson let go the hoof and stepped back.

“A thorn or the tip of a stick, straight in.” Mr. Peterson made a face. “Scotch isn’t going to like me pulling it out.” He ducked into the stable. Came out with a pair of pincers.

“I’ll hold his head,” I said, putting the milk beyond kicking distance.

“Stand well away, Samuel,” Mr. Peterson said as he lifted the hoof again.