“All girls go through a horsy stage, Gabe. Haven’t you ever heard of My Friend Flicka?” “Is that like Lassie Come Home?” “Only if you’ve got a small horse or a big dog. I used to barrel race—Daddy bought a quarter horse for me named Doodles. She was quick—good speed and turning. But a lot of girls rode better than I did. I never made it past the Little Britches level.” “Why not?” Wager surged the Trans-Am up the wide lanes of I-70 toward Empire Junction and the Berthoud Pass turnoff. Ahead, still bearing large patches of snow on the gray-and-yellow rock above timberline, peaks rose sharply against the dark of high-altitude sky. Closer to the highway, the forested slopes showed streaks of talus slides and plunging streams from the spring runoff, which was heavy this year. A deep snow pack, a quick hot spring: the radio was talking about floods on both sides of the Divide, and already a couple of river rafters had drowned. “I discovered boys. And cars. Daddy finally had to sell her.
