Wayne stroked the mare’s tan face after she’d eaten the handful of grain and smirked as she snorted at him. He was not well versed in low speech as to the point of being fluent, but he had obviously picked up on a lot of horse body language and noises to know that Tupelo was complaining. The chestnut and white female seemed to do that quite a bit, though she was well-bred and cooperative otherwise. He wondered if most of her moodiness came from the foal growing in her white-splashed belly. Then again, she seemed glad to be out of the pen. Usually the horses of Casa di Cavalieri roamed freely around the pack lands, but with the festival-goers so close, Dixie and he didn’t want to take any chances; one of their mounts could easily be snatched up.
Satisfied that the horses were tied well together and that Buckeye wasn’t going to go charging after the redhead, the wolfdog glanced back at the short man, who copied his posture and his scowl. Dusty-yellow fur bristled at the nape of the man’s neck, but he let the other explain his intentions behind the yelling.
When the vulpine wolf spoke, however, the scowl faded from the cowboy’s lips to be replaced with a less-than-polite smirk, though the deep chuckle that rumbled out of his chest wasn’t mocking or mean. Let a pregnant mare get the best of you? he asked, though he knew full well how much of a handful she could be. He had to remind himself sometimes that the other Cavalierites weren’t as well versed with horses as he and Dixie were naturally; he was just glad they didn’t see the creatures as prey. It was inevitable that there would be some canine-equine conflicts due to misunderstandings like this one.
She was pro’ly just checkin’ you out, the man said, shrugging. Can’t vouch for her wholeheartedly since I didn’t see anything. I know she has some mettle. His smirk eased into a proper smile, one that came easier to his lips than it used to around strangers like this one. Maybe it was because he was recognizing his pack mates as friends, or because of his general good mood after Dixie-May had returned from her journey. Thought of the small cowgirl caused his hardened features to soften up even more.
Ease up, Wayne suggested, looking down at the foxy-furred man. If a horse starts roarin’ and rearin’ at ya, I can understand the knife—but Casa ain’t gonna be home to ill-bred and ill-tempered stock.
He loosened his arms finally, offering his hand to shake, ears turned back slightly in apology for his own gruffness and quick conclusions. Wayne McCoy, he introduced himself, before with a grin he swept his free hand back toward the horses. That’s Buckeye—and your pal is Tupelo. The paint mare tossed her head at the sound of her name.
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