I slowly roll over and stretch while taking a deep breath. I wriggle my toes and burrow deeper under the blankets. My nose twitches. I hesitantly sniff. Mmm, fresh pancakes and eggs! I slip out of my bedroom and find myself in the kitchen. Sniff, sniff, sniff.
“Morning, sleepy head.” My mom smiles at me as she flips the pancakes.
I walk into the living room. My dad is talking on his cell phone. Slowly I move toward him and try to eavesdrop on his conversation. I am not a very good detective. I only hear a few words:
“OK … tomorrow … see you … all right.”
I frown. Boring! With a sigh, I sit down on the couch. My dad finishes his call and looks up at me with a grin on his face.
“So, how would you like to drive down to Boise and get some horses?”
I stare at him.
“Are you serious?” My dad loves to tease.
“Yep. I just finished talking to the guy, and he says we can come pick some out tomorrow.”
A huge grin spreads over my face.
My dad chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes. How about you go tell your sister?”
I practically leap off the couch and run to my sister’s bedroom, already dreaming of the beautiful buckskin or palomino I’m going to get.
“Andrea!”
My sister is lying on her bed, totally engrossed in a book.
“Andrea!”
Younger sisters can be so annoying.
Finally, she looks up.
“What do you want?” she asks grumpily.
“We’re going to go to Boise and get some BLM Mustangs! Today!”
My sister drops her book and hurdles out of her bed like a rocket. Then she loses her balance and falls onto the floor in a heap. I burst out laughing and quickly clap my hand over my mouth. Andrea glares at me as she picks herself up off the floor. Once she is standing again, my younger sister places her hands on her hips.
“Now, tell me again what you said about us getting horses,” she orders.
I obey, even though it’s hard to do when your orders are coming from your younger sister who is still dressed in her purple fox pajamas.
“Dad just told me. We are going to leave for Boise this morning to get two Mustangs from the BLM Boise Wild Horse Corrals.”
My sister grabs my shoulders and shakes me—hard.
“Are you serious? You’re not kidding?” she asks, looking earnestly into my eyes. (You should have guessed by now that my family loves to tease.)
“I’m serious! Would I lie to my own sister?”
She glares at me. Wrong thing to say. Then she smiles—a big, great-grand daddy smile. Phew, that was a close one.
My dad pokes his head into the bedroom.
“All right girls, we leave in an hour. Pack whatever you want to bring in your backpacks. This will just be a quick trip, so we’ll drive there today, spend the night at a motel, pick up the horses, and drive home tomorrow. Got it?”
We nod our heads in unison.
A Long Drive
I heave a sigh of relief as we pass by a huge sign that reads “Boise” and glance at the time. 8 p.m. We have reached our destination!
We hang out in our motel room and watch TV for a bit before hitting the hay. With thoughts of buckskins and palominos in my mind, I drift off into a peaceful sleep.
Time For Horses
I wake up early—because that’s what happens when you’re excited, slept on a strange bed, and are in a motel right next to an airport. For a while, my sister and I peer through the large motel window and watch the planes take off.
Finally, it’s time to head out to see the horses. Andrea and I are almost giddy with excitement. On the way to the corrals, I imagine myself riding through a field full of daisies, my horse’s tail streaming out behind him.
When we arrive at the BLM facility, all three of us quickly exit Dad’s beat-up white work truck. We waste no time and quickly meet the man who is in charge. He gives us a sheet of paper with the ages of all the horses and tells us to take a look around and decide which ones we want. My sister and I promptly rush off.
Illustration by Jean Abernethy
First, I walk over to the closest pen that holds around 30 fillies, all yearlings. There are bays, sorrels, chestnuts, and darker bays that are almost black.
I can’t help being a bit disappointed. Not a single palomino in the pen! With a quick glance at Andrea and my dad, I start to walk over to the next pen. More bays. Phooey. I quickly check the third corral, with no luck.
Buckskin Dream
Suddenly, a flash of movement catches my eye. I race past the pens numbered 4 and 5 and stop in front of pen 6, my mouth agape. A gorgeous buckskin is standing on the far side of the corral, head held high and nostrils flared. There is no doubt in my mind. This is the horse for me.
Andrea and Dad walk up beside me. Dad whistles.
“That’s one good-lookin’ horse!” he comments.
“I know! I want him.”
Dad gives me a sharp look. “You sure? He’s a big thing, and if this paper is correct, he’s 10 years old. Probably means he was a stallion and had a herd of mares before the BLM rounded him up.”
“Mmhmm. Isn’t he just perfect?”
Andrea cocks an eyebrow at me.
I roll my eyes at her. I can’t believe he’s actually going to be mine!
Andrea decides to get one of the fillies. With our selections made, Dad goes to get the wrangler. Soon our horses are in a narrow chute, about to be loaded onto the trailer. My sister’s gangly filly loads first, going into the trailer without a fuss. I watch my horse confidently, thinking he’ll do the same. I think wrong.
The buckskin refuses to go into the trailer. Suddenly, the gelding turns into a raging ball of fury. I bite my lip when he aims several kicks in the wrangler’s direction, and my face turns white when he makes a mighty lunge and tries to get over the panels.
I race over to the wrangler. “Stop! I—I don’t want that horse,” I say, my face red with embarrassment.
The man wipes the sweat off his brow and grins. “Good choice. I’ll get this guy back in his pen while you pick out a calmer one.”
I am relieved that it isn’t too late. Quickly, I walk over to where I started—the fillies. My eyes are drawn to a stocky little black filly, and after seeing her soft, gentle eyes, my decision is made. She sure isn’t a beautiful buckskin, but I have a good, warm feeling inside, and I know I picked the right horse.
I proudly show my dad, and he runs a large, calloused hand through his hair.
“I don’t know if I should be angry with you or not,” he says. “Why couldn’t you have picked this one at the start?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I wanted a pretty horse.”
Lesson Learned
After my filly is loaded, I peer through the slats into the trailer.
“I guess I learned that lesson the hard way,” I tell my horse. “Never again will I look at just the outward appearance. I guess the old saying is true: Looks can be deceiving!”
Special thanks to YR reader Lena Teele, 14, for submitting this true story.
This short story, “Horse of a Different Color,” appeared in the September/October 2023 issue of Young Rider magazine. Click here to subscribe!
