Now here was a neighbor on a white horse carrying a metal detector. The Percheron led his mares away.

“Shaw left yesterday,” the latest guy said.

“She’s thinking of going after him,” Ella said.

“Screw you again and again,” Ginny said.

“She’s not going,” said Dan. “She’s staying.”

“If she doesn’t,” said metal detector, “St. Cecilia is ruined forever for potlucks and bake sales. How will we stand it?”

Ella spun on the man. “Everything’s a joke to you.”

“Let’s get this mare standing,” Ginny said.

“We weren’t talking to you,” Ella said.

“But here I am,” said Ginny, face-to-face with her sister.

“Should’ve gone with him. She deserves more than a slap.”

“Too many years of you,” Ginny said. “Dull, Ella, dull.”

“Dull’s fine. I’ve earned dull. Proud of dull. Dull’s honest. If what you are’s exciting, probably best go be exciting somewhere else.”

“Hold up,” Saul said. “That’s Dan’s decision to make.”

“No one wants you here anymore,” Ella said. “Go catch Shaw. Make a love nest in Pollings or Cheyenne.”

“Hold up,” Dan said. “I haven’t decided.”

“My ranch,” Ginny said. “Get off.”

“Your ranch,” Ella said. She shouldered past Ginny, not a shove exactly, then circled back to the mare, her sister shaking and red.

“That’s what I mean,” Saul said. “That right there.”

The men sipped and smiled. The mare nosed an empty cup.

“This girl needs a bucketful pronto!” Saul called. Kids sprinted down to the well.

“Get on home,” Ginny said, collecting herself. “Me and Dan can handle this.”

But Dan kicked soot. “I think we need ’em.”

“Come on,” Saul said. “Relax. It’s good we’re here.”

Soon both Ella and Ginny were down on their knees with the still mare. Ginny’s face was filthy and dark while the sun lit Ella’s through the leaves in patches. It was a sweet face about to turn old. Lines were only now forming. Saul sucked a piece of straw. They tied ropes around the mare. The flies circled. More neighbors were arriving from across the creek and calling out, “Hey!” They tottered over via boulders, drew up bigger across the sidehill. Ella doled out cups.

“Anyone bring a pistol?” one new arrival said after looking the mare over.

They carried two beams for levers from the barn, dropped them at the mare.

“A Percheron must be black or gray,” Saul was saying, “to hold papers in America. Strong and compliant despite his size. He was bred for plows and wagons.”

“I never knew the name,” said a neighbor just arrived by bike.

“Long before the motorized truck or tractor,” Saul said, “the Percheron and its ilk powered our farms and nation.”

“Good days,” said pocketknife.