I still think of her stepping daintily down the graveled drive, looking off to the West, stopping and listening and then making a small sound with the undertone of futility.
She had earned her name when she had moved away from me in the front seat of my pickup, turning her head away and putting her face in the corner between the seat-back and the door.
“Well then, be that way, your majesty,” I had said, keeping one eye on the highway. “Your highness, I dub thee Queen Noor.”
I had rescued Noor from the stewpot, at the Centennial Livestock Auction. She had been booted out of the chute by a tobacco-chewing young man with the brim of his Western hat down over his eyes, one toe of a worn boot at her bottom. She had stood in the bright lights of the arena alone, when the bidding started and many…
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