You’re Busted

And It’s a Laugh

By Carolyn White

The little white car came flying south on Highway 95 and caught up to me about five miles from Donnelly. It was 6:30 in the evening and I had just filled up on gas before heading for Cascade to meet a friend and go riding.

The road was long and straight, and there were few other cars out that late in the day, but the driver didn’t pass. Instead, he followed right behind my horse trailer, so close I couldn’t see him.

“Pass me, you moron!” I growled, glancing in the driver’s side mirror. My truck was in cruise control, set a good ten miles under the speed limit, but the car stayed put. Even more aggravating, it veered towards the broken center line at least a dozen times before dropping out of sight.

In my mind’s eye, I could see Bonnie’s long, black tail (which she somehow always managed to flick over the trailer’s half-door) swooshing back and forth. My agitation grew. If a deer or elk ran out in front of me and forced the brakes, both my mares would be injured if the car behind me slammed into them.

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