That fiery gelding would prance like a big-boned parade horse for miles, neck arched, chest puffed out, tail held high. You had to ride every single step, legs draped around his steaming sides, seat deep and soft at the same time, with light hands. On Ebony, there was no falling asleep or daydreaming, or who knew where the old Morgan might take you, and how fast. He was not for the faint of heart. Riding him was like sitting astride a big jet-fueled rocket that was snorting, blowing, engines revving, but controlled, exhilarating, and utterly satisfying if one knew what to do with all that horse.

I asked Rebecca once, as we sat on straw bales over at her place with Ebony eyeing us companionably from across the cattle gate, swishing his long, thick tail, My God, what do you think he was like as a five-year-old? Ebony's ears pricked forward. Handsome creature who'd probably been admired by more than a few women during his lifetime, he seemed to know that we were talking about him. Can you imagine him as an eight-year-old (when most horses at least begin to settle down)? I mean, if he's this full of himself at twenty-five? Ebony lowered his head, wavy mane cascading rakishly over one bright eye, peering at us through the corral bars. Considering the muscular, barrel-chested Morgan, I let out a long, low whistle, My Lord.

My friend smiled. A small, secretive smile straight out of a Jane Austen novel, which was fitting for this rather prim attorney from New England who'd moved to New Mexico with her husband several years ago. (She was still wearing practical blue pumps, dark sober suits and ugly bow blouses to the office every day, occasionally jazzed up with a sorority pin or pearls.) Well, let me tell you. I bought him from an elderly English woman who swore he was unbelievable (special emphasis on this word) in his prime, she said. A real handful. Rebecca looked around conspiratorially, as if she was going to impart some hidden knowledge to me, lowered her voice to nearly a whisper. She told me that she liked a high-spirited horse because she loved having something, she paused, her tastefully made-up face slightly reddened, and then she let it spill in one long whoosh—

that hot and fiery between her legs.

Rebecca stared at me expectantly, worry lines crossing her face, as if she'd just dropped a killer bomb of ... gasp ... incivility, pursing her pretty pink lipsticked lips together, wondering if she’d shocked me to death or what. Our eyes locked, startled. Shadows of grins played on both of our mouths. Filled with half disbelief and suddenly all shallow, rapid breathing, temperatures rising to a giddy head, we each knew exactly what the other was thinking—of the generally unspoken conspiracy of horsewomen. Regarding our nice rides.

Manicured hand on her forehead like a Victorian lady ready to faint on her chaise, unable to stand it one moment more, Rebecca snorted through her narrow-bridged nose, nostrils flaring, brushed one stray blonde hair back into place, then collapsed sideways into the loose straw on the ground. That goes for me too! she choked, shaking her head back and forth, eyes closed, tears streaming from the corners. Ebony was dozing now, one hind leg cocked, softly snoring, maybe dreaming of girls draping garlands of flowers around his neck. And I burst—squeaking, Me too!, hugging my sides tight, gasping for air now. Our giggles overtook us in sputtering starts and stops until we were both guffawing, chortling, hee-hawing (imagine a preppy girl doing that), laughing so hard we thought we would die.

Several years later, when we both were very pregnant (Rebecca with her second, me with my first), we ambled along the Pojoaque creek on horseback together like two equestrian Madonnas, much to the consternation of the elderly Hispanic ladies in the valley. Aeeee! That's just not right!