[The minute the point is made, the hand recedes. The cowboy (and he can only be a cowboy, spurs and all, my God) is a man of violence. Quick to anger. Maybe he's smarter than he sounds, given he'd taken a good pause and weighed his options for the better. But that could change in a moment.

Don's lips thin at the inquiry.]

I don't know. [His eyes flick over the horse as they walk away. She's obedient, lovingly groomed. A doted on partner. The next best thing to family, or perhaps better.] I have no idea what to do with her, either. There was a park south of here—

[Truthfully, he couldn't give a damn about the well-being of the horse. There's people passing with haughty looks, a lot of shock and sneering at the sight of a pack animal in civilization. They're drawing far too much attention in a place they knew far too little about. They were already marked as lower class. How much further could they be made to stoop?]

Get her out of here. You're a walking bullseye.