that old wind is whistlin' your tune

Wayne McCoy · 02-15-2012, 08:56 PM

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I was a young troubadour, when I rode in on a song

Word Count :: 381 Lalalala! Dated early in the month. Smile

Wayne had found his home away from home.

Originally, the Cavalieri cowboy felt out-of-place among the spiritualist Ichikans, socializing only with his new mentor and otherwise staying out of the way of the rest of the mountain pack. However, once he had reunited with Saul Stormbringer and found the ranch where the animals were kept, it was impossible to get them to leave.

He stood out in the field with Gypsy now, simply resting his head against the paint mare and rubbing his hand gently along her neck. Since their reunion, he had been spending most of his waking moments tending to her, even though he did explore the rest of Broken Arrow Ranch quite enthusiastically. The stocky horse was doing well, even in her pregnancy, though she’d yet to truly show it. Her stubborn temperament had softened, however, and she obeyed him perfectly—though he thought this was just out of happiness to see him, a trait that would soon turn back into her normal hard-headedness. The thought made him chuckle, and the mare nickered and grabbed his hat.

Grinning, the dusty-furred mongrel jerked back and watched as she trotted away with the brim of the old thing in her mouth. She flicked her tail and stamped her front hooves playfully before cantering away around the large barn. He chased her with playful barks, startling goats that meandered past, and paused for breath with his back against one of the vertical planks of wood that might have made up a shed at one point. The ranch was the definition of dilapidated, that was for certain, but it reminded him of his old home so much—of Texas and the south, of his stay with Dixie-May when they were kids, of everything. Only the chill of winter against his timber-thick coat reminded him that he wasn’t in the States anymore.

Eventually, the pied horse slowed down in her game long enough for him to spook her, causing her to whinny shrilly and gallop away without the hat. He laughed, picking up the chase once more, but simply jogged alongside her as they ran toward the edge of the ranch, overlooking the great valley. Indeed, Ichika no Ho-en was beautiful—now that he could actually appreciate is beauty for what it was.

I'll be an old troubadour, when I'm gone

Image courtesy of UmbraDeNoapte-Stock

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