Lilac's Chance

Epilogue

A year and a half later

Wind tears across my face as the colt I'm astride leaps into the chaotic breeze, mane a tangle, ears pricked, tail snapping. Each step he takes jars me against the ground, hard and unforgiving, tugging on my hands, rubbing them raw. I laugh at him. It's a day for freedom, for speed and power.

Braydon is galloping next to me on Fudge, and where my colt is unfocused and breezy, he's businesslike and brisk in his gallop, ears tipped to listen to Braydon. My colt only wants to run.

Like horse, like rider.

"Cyclone's looking good!" Braydon calls, words snatched by the wind as we rein in our horses. Fudge trembles, wanting to run more but not daring to try, while the red colt beneath me prances and jigs and fights the bit, ears flickering everywhere.

I pat him to steady him, my smile answer enough for how the colt feels. He's carried me across countless finish lines, and he's not astonishing but like Chance before him, loves to run. And for me, now, that's enough.

It always has been.

Braydon opens his mouth to say something else, but just then his phone rings, startling us all. He fishes it out of his pocket and presses it to his ear, blue eyes dark and serious.

And then I know.

When he hangs up, he looks at me, mouth a grim line. "It's time."

The words are barely out of his mouth and I'm spinning Cyclone around, shooting him back across the field, Fudge hot on our heels. Black and gold streak across the grass, only just now becoming alive again after winter. The wind is at our backs now, whispering to us. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

We are.

In the pasture, on the other side of the fence, another chestnut colt gallops next to us, trying to press us into a race. I barely spare him a glance, but Cyclone's breath quickens more than the run warrants. Bonawinds, a breeding farm, is now keeping a select few horses for racing, and that colt is one of them. Every stride he takes is powerful and ground covering.

But I'm not focused on the future. I'm focused on now.

We tear into the yard moments later, horses still hot and wanting more. More speed, more running, more. I'm off Cyclone in an instant. Same for Braydon and Fudge, and he takes the reins from my hand. "I'll take care of him. You go," he orders.

I want to want to protest, the colt is my responsibility, but I'll allow it this once. My feet are already carrying me into the barn, as fast as they can.

When I get inside, it's cool and hushed, almost a cathedral. And Hank is in there, leaning against a stall door, gesturing for me to come. "He's here."

He's here.

My breath catches suddenly in my chest. I've seen it happen a thousand times, but it's never been this important.

I creep over to the stall door and look over.

"Oh, Chance, he's perfect."

The palomino mare nickers wearily at me, but she's pleased too, I can tell. Her sides streak with sweat, her nostrils flare as she scents the shadow at her side. And then it detaches from her, and he's not a shadow anymore.

He's a colt.

A tiny, perfect, wobbly-legged horse, with dark eyelashes framing his startled gaze. He's slick and dark and wet now, but I see along his spine, his legs, hints of him being a buckskin. Gold, like his mother, but in a darker, fiercer way. 

I love him instantly.

"He stood just maybe a minute ago," Hank says quietly, hand on my shoulder. "He's going to be strong."

I agree. Already the colt is fluid and balanced, though his oversized head bobbles a bit as he searches Last Chance's sides. She nickers softly at him, nudging him back a little, and there. He latches on, suckling greedily. For a moment the barn fills with a quiet sense of awe, a holiness basking in the presence of a life that hadn't been there less than an hour ago.

And then there's Braydon at my side, looking in. I hadn't sensed him coming, but now his presence looms over my shoulder, respectful and loving as he looks on at his favorite mare. "He's going to be gorgeous," he says softly.

Definitely.

"Have you thought of any names?" Hank asks. I have a few ideas, but look at Braydon, who shifts impatiently.

"I had one." He looks shyly at me. "If you don't mind."

I don't. He has every right in the world to name the first colt. There will be others to fill the names I have. Many others.

"I was thinking..." Braydon clears his throat. "I was thinking of naming him Lilac's Chance."

For a moment I cannot take a breath.
H

ank, slightly behind Braydon, looks first flabbergasted, and then approving. He nods. But Braydon begins to look uncertain. "I'm sorry. It's stupid. It's- I'm-"

"No!" I interrupt quickly, glancing back into the stall. The colt, Lilac's Chance, nuzzles against his dam while she lovingly rubs her muzzle against him, eyes soft and calm. Everything is okay. "It's- Braydon, honestly.

"It's perfect."