“Smash,” said Mrs. Horne, “I have a thing about horses, and I think there have been horses in your past. When I look at you, I see horses.”

“Yes’m,” said Smash Dykes. “I have had a right smart of dealing with horses in my time, and there was some good and some bad about it.”

“I would love to hear your stories, Smash,” said Mrs. Horne, and she led Smash Dykes out into the little sitting-room part of the bookstore, where she had reading lamps and comfortable furniture. “I bet you could tell the most fascinating horse stories, better than the stories in the books I sell.”

“Yes’m, I could tell some horse stories’d make you want to just put your head in your hands and cry like a baby.”

“You know,” said Mrs. Horne, “when I was a little girl, my daddy bought me a horse, just the laziest, good-for-nothingest horse you ever saw. All he did was stand around half-asleep, with his bottom lip hanging down, but I loved him so, and I named him Trigger. Oh, I had such horse dreams, Smash!”

Mrs. Horne’s favorite colors were lavender and pale green, and she was skillful with her clothes and makeup. She had soft blond hair and she smelled like heliotrope. Mrs. Horne sat down in the chair across from Smash Dykes, crossed her legs, and smoothed her skirt around her knees. She had pretty little hands and feet and she arranged them just so. “You know,” she said, “I still dream of horses, but not of horses like my old Trigger. Oh, no! I dream of horses like the Arabian stallions in Lucy’s painting, horses from books I’ve read, spirited horses with fire in their eyes and their heads and tails held high.”

Smash Dykes didn’t say a word, but sat there thoughtfully for a long time, while Precious meowed and gazed up at him.

By that afternoon Lucy had finished the background of the mural and begun to block in the horses. She was washing out her brushes when Mrs. Horne came in to admire the work and chat.

“You know,” Mrs. Horne said, “I do believe Smash Dykes is a little sweet on me. Isn’t that the cutest thing? The poor man was absolutely tongue-tied!”

“Or maybe he just didn’t have anything to say,” said Lucy.

“The silent type!” Mrs. Horne wagged a finger. “Still waters run deep!”

After that, Smash Dykes began showing up nearly every day at the bookstore, to see the progress of the mural and to sit in the comfortable reading lounge with Mrs. Horne. She fed him sesame wafers from the coffee shop—“I feel just like a little birdie, eating all these seeds,” said Smash Dykes—and made him cups of green tea—“Tastes about like branch water,” said Smash Dykes.