Falls

Boone fancied himself a fine-looking stallion, but there must have been something in the water on these islands, because not one woman had looked his way yet this season. A thorough examination of his reflection proved nothing amiss: there was still the same unsightly notch missing from his ear-tip, to be sure, but the ocean had not washed the crisp patches of white from his golden coat, nor the lean musculature from his bones, and his eyes were still as blue as ever, with that gleam in them that Gus had always said promised violence but, in Boone's opinion, was just his good humour sparkling.

Gus had always called Boone a pretty boy, too, owing to Boone's remarkable lack of scarring considering the number of fights he'd been in, but that Boone had put down to jealousy. "I lost a whole bite o' ear," Boone had protested once. "I paid my dues."

His reflection rippled before him presently, all those features Gus had mocked over the years shimmering in and out of focus. Beyond, the falls roared. Boone had already given into his impulse to stand directly beneath them—he was slick as a seal pup now—and had found the pounding pressure of the water strangely invigorating until he'd sucked in a lungful of it. His chest still ached from the hacking he'd done, and now the freeze in the air was seeping through his wet coat and into his bones. He gave a little shiver. It was time to warm up.

He had just slid into a lazy jog along the edge of the basin, intending to move aimlessly until the heat of his body had dried his coat, when there was movement in his peripheral vision from across the water. With it came a scent that stopped him in his tracks. Boone stood at attention, watching as a figure slid from behind the russet veil of the trees. The mare was striking, though Boone could not decide if she was beautiful. She was long and lean, with a coat of mottled white and brown that almost blended in with the frost-edged tips of the autumn leaves around her. Shapely blondes were more to his taste—they looked like him, after all—and in his experience spotted mares were been more trouble than they were worth.

Of course, he would never turn up an opportunity to test that theory.

He had rounded the pond in a heartbeat and approached the mare with a crooked smirk and a lashing tail, neck arched to more clearly display the cords of muscle there.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" he crooned, pressing in as close as he could to sniff at her shoulder. "And you smell even better than you look, darlin'."