Excerpt from early in the book. DO’D
Bobby heard the growl of a powerful diesel motor before the vehicle came into view. When it lumbered around the corner of Orr’s big hayfield, where a cluster of salt cedar blocked the view, he yelled, “Whoa!” and turned Powwow toward the fence, edging her right against the barbed wire.
The roar came from the largest and fanciest motor home Bobby had ever seen. It stopped beside him, and the driver lowered his window. The man looked more bear than human, a huge face half enfolded in a thick, curly red beard.
“Hey, boy-o, is this the road to the Mule Men’s place?”
“Sure is, just follow this track until you can’t go any farther, and you’ll be there.”
Bobby heard but could not really see at least two more people in the vehicle. He waited until the driver shut the window and rolled on, taking the bumpy road slowly. Bobby turned Powwow around and headed back to the ranch yard, about a quarter of a mile away.
By the time he got there, the big bearded man had gotten out. Swinging his arms in a wild fashion, he talked to Orr, as much in gestures as in words. Orr held up a hand to slow him down. “Whoa, not so fast. I’m having trouble following you. What kind of an accent is that you have?”
“Accent? I don’t got no accent. I’m Irish.” Only it sounded closer to Ersh the way the man said it.
Then, just as Bobby checked Powwow to stand and listen, another person emerged from the motor home. He was not a huge man at all, somewhere between Bobby and Jase in height and probably weight. He wore an odd costume complete with a flowing purple cape slung back over his shoulder. In his arms, he carried a small blonde girl. She, too, wore a costume, a frilly and fluffy cotton candy sort of gown with a satin cape and a glittery tiara on her golden head. The man’s hair was brown, but they both had the most brilliant blue eyes Bobby had ever seen. For a heartbeat or two, time and everything else stood still.
Oh, my God and all the saints. I never saw such a beautiful man in my life.
Over the past busy weeks, Bobby had developed a crush on Orr. Before he could make a fool of himself, he learned what a close bond his new boss and the other partner in The Mule Men had. There simply wasn’t room in that shared life or the king-sized bed for a third person. He saw very soon that he didn’t have Nana Estrada’s proverbial Chinaman’s chance in hell of getting to first base with the big mule man. That was likely for the best, because Orr was as far from a sugar daddy sort as you could be. But this fellow—despite the frills, lace, velvet, and bizarre clothes, he was Prince Charming come the twenty-first century USA.
When the elegant stranger turned his blue flame gaze toward Bobby and Powwow, Bobby thought his heart would lodge in his throat and then come to an unwound clock’s total stop.
“Is that what mules look like? I didn’t see any that small and dainty in the magazine, but it looks perfect. Is it a female, I think they’re called mollies? And what an adorable color she is. A mule for a princess, and that’s just what we’ve come to find.”
Orr chuckled. “A mule for a princess. I’ll have to remember that. She isn’t one of the regular sale mules. Yes, it’s a she, and she belongs to the young man driving her. She’s not old enough to be fully trained yet, but she will be small, even when full grown.”
Relieved of the immediate necessity to speak, Bobby drew several deep, steadying breaths and then moved to grasp the side piece of Powwow’s halter so he could bring her closer to the stranger and his delicate burden. The little girl reached with a small white hand, stretching her arm out of the airy sleeve of her elaborate gown.
“You can pet her,” Bobby offered. “She’s very friendly and loves attention.”
The girl did, first gingerly brushing her fingertips near the end of Powwow’s sorrel muzzle and then, with more confidence, stroking the length of the white blaze that marked the little mule’s pretty face.
“This is the one, Uncle Doyle,” she said. “I’m sure she is. In the storybooks, the princess always has a dappled gray palfrey, but this is even better.”
The man, apparently named Doyle, shot a sharp glance at Bobby. “Is this one for sale? The price is no impediment. If you want two thousand pounds—oh wait, make that ten thousand dollars, we’ll gladly give you that much or more. Whatever Fiona wants, she can have.”
“Is—is she really a princess?” Later, Bobby acknowledged that was probably the stupidest thing he had ever said, but the words slipped out on the wings of his amazement. This was all so unreal, he pinched his leg through his jeans to see if it would wake him up. Powwow tossed her head, stretching closer to the girl’s hand. That jolted him back to something close to reality.
The handsome man smiled. “Almost. I’ll explain later.”
“Er, she’s not ready, not trained. She’s just a colt, a yearling. It’ll be months before she should be ridden at all, and even then very lightly and only for short sessions as she continues to mature. And I wouldn’t dare ask that much for a mule, although I did see where one recently sold for over sixty thousand at a big sale. That blew my mind!”
Doyle smiled, a genuine smile that started in his eyes and spread to illuminate his whole face. “I see. I’m familiar with horses. The O’Brien stable is well known in Ireland for our hunters, jumpers, and steeplechase horses. None of them are under saddle until at least three years of age. Still, this seems to be what Fiona wants, so we’ll take her. You can have whatever time you require to finish her training. Perhaps we’ll stay in the area for a while and watch her develop. Does that sound good, your highness?”
Fiona laughed. “Excellent, dear Uncle Doyle. Even brilliant, as perhaps by the then I shall be well enough to ride.”
“We really don’t have a good place to park and set up your motor home here on the ranch,” Orr broke in. “There’s a very nice park up at Glenwood, though, where you can see the river although it’s above the flood area. They have all the hook-up stuff you need.”
Doyle nodded. “That should work for us. I’ll see about renting a small car so we can come and go as we need to, but this will be our base camp for a while. Is that all right with you, Fiona?”
“You forgot to say ‘your highness,’” Fiona said, clearly trying to sound stern only to spoil the effect by breaking into giggles. Before Doyle could turn to carry her back into the vehicle, she returned her attention to Bobby.
“What is her name, and what’s yours?”
“I’m Bobby, and the mule is Powwow. Her mother was a spotted Appaloosa, a true Indian pony. Maybe you can be in Indian princess as well as an Irish one.”
Fiona cocked her head. “Hmmm. That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll have to research online about Appaloosas and—wait, what tribe were they from?”
Jase had been silent, but now he entered the conversation. “The appys were started by the Nez Perce tribe in what is now Idaho and Montana. One of my dad’s grandfathers was Nez Perce. He used to talk about their fine horses.”
“But she’s not a horse, she’s a mule, or that was what I thought you said.”
“Mules are what they call a hybrid, a mixture of two different species. Powwow’s mother was a mare, but her father was a burro or a jack.”
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