I don’t stop her when she swings into a walk, marching down the muddy, rocky mountainside so fast you’d think she was going to a fire. She takes her official job as nerves-of-iron, steely-eyed head honcho trail horse in the rain very seriously, with my husband Dennis riding herd on all of us in last place on his side-winding, puddle-hopping, eye-rolling Arabian creature, who despises being wet. I feel safe with him back there, keeping an eye on our small caravan.

Teyla’s need for speed makes my family members cranky at me because J. and C.’s Amazon mares, even with their long legs, and Dennis’ mountain goat have to trot every now and then to keep up with the appaloosa’s churning legs of Agate. Her hindquarters are Charoite. Her polka dots—Black Marble swirls. But this pace is not a good idea in rocks and mud on the narrow, winding, downhill serpentine.

I jiggle the reins, say Easy there, T-Bone (one nickname), eeeaaaassssyyy, punctuated by a couple of tiny half-halts. Sloooooowwwwwww. Teyla arches her neck, twists her mule-like ears (I never claimed the T-Bomb was a great beauty.), torques her salt and pepper tail around and around, thwacking it against her broad backside, checking her speed, completely pissed off. Usually I defer to the mare’s good judgment, but with and 8- and 9-year-old in tow, we need to slow down.

At the creek, now glutted with rain, she forges undaunted into water nearly up to her belly, splashing with a diminutive foreleg, whether playing or testing the water’s depth, I don’t know, but I do know she’s getting me even more wet. I’m telling my son C., Just trust your horse, buddy, trust your horse, as Pinon lumbers into the fast water right behind me. C. sits deep in his saddle, never once clutches the horn. From the corner of my eye, I see Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler dog paddling in between us and a log dam just off of Miss T.’s shoulder. But, far enough off so she won’t get nipped. Or drowned. She’s not dumb. Tay-lah-lah (for the “T” and the “A” branded onto her hindquarters) carries a personal vendetta against all dogs.

Dennis and J. are holding back, letting us cross first so we don’t have a sixteen-hoofed and sixteen-legged traffic jam. Caprichosa carries J. thoughtfully across, picking each white leg high above the water like a cat. Her horse shoes are scraping against rock as they scramble up the bank in a steep, slick place.

The blue heeler bounds down the trail ahead of us, springing into the air, jaws agape, snapping at the rain. It’s falling harder than what-we-thought-earlier-was-hard now. Her barks echo off of the rocks, stones, trees. In true heeler fashion, she is taking care of us, doing the best she can to ward off the peals of thunder that come crashing around the bend behind us, suddenly upon us. She’s letting God have it. Woofing, Quit. Enough. Already. We laugh. Relieved to have an opportunity for a little lightening up. That’s one tough dog. Let him have it, Matilda! You tell him to stop!

Rain runs off of Teyla’s face, down her neck, past the scar where Doc Callahan cut out the tooth that had sprouted behind her ear, probably years ago, and no one cared enough to take care of it. I never took my eyes off of that ugly lump during the surgery. Once removed, the vet brandished the bloody, misshapen, snaggle tooth before my eyes so I could see what had been lodged beneath her skin. She’s eyeballing me again, looking about as happy as a cat in a bath tub, the kohl-lined, unflinching Cleopatra look I now know well. Hailstones decorate her roached mane like fresh water pearls.

My daughter asks, Mom, are we going to be alright? Her eyes are pleading. I scan the clouds above, try to see all of this from her 9-year-old perspective. I don’t like this. I want to get off. I want to walk. She suddenly looks even smaller on her Andalusian horse in the middle of the drenched conifer forest. No, J., I say. I feel that I am being too tough, but this is one of those times when she’s going to need to rise to the occasion. There aren’t many choices up here. I want you to stay on that horse. And I know this is the truest thing at the moment. You are safest there. I point to Caprichosa’s broad back. You are OK. I say each word with deliberation. Dennis and I are here, and we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s just rain, J. And hail. It’s going to end soon. You are on a good horse. I’ve ridden ol’ Cap lots of times in the mountains in worse places than this. She will take care of you. She looks relieved. This seems to make it better. A few lengths behind us, I think that Dennis is having the same conversation with C., the boy who sleeps with his window wide open at night so he can watch the lightning storm from his bed.

I give Teyla her head, and we haul ass for the trailhead. Soon, the rain quits.

After I’ve removed Teyla’s saddle, pad, saddlebags, bridle, I want to hug her freckled neck. But her Pyrite eyes warn me that Displays of Affection are Not Welcome at This Time. Then for one split second, I see her dark eye soften beneath her meager eyelashes, and I know that she is showing me that she loves me too the best that she can. I smile at the very tired, very wet appaloosa. Lay my hand on her wither.

This one small token my stone horse accepts.