She didn't have to pull Denali up as they reached their destination, he had taken her to this spot many times before. Maggie slid from his back as the Paint slowed to a stop at the split-rail fence, dropping his head to taste the sweet rye grass.

"Mornin' Pop, Mama."

Maggie spoke quietly as she eyed the sagging leather hinges that were doing their best to keep the gate on its posts. The muddy whitewash also got the "once over" as she stepped inside, carefully pulling the gate closed behind her.

"Place needs some sprucin' up, Pop. I'll see what I can do about that for you."

In the center of the expanse of split-rail, lay Maggie's parents. The stones were strong and honest and unassuming, like the people whose places they marked.

Jordan Michael Benedict Husband Father Friend

Honora Evangline Hill-Benedict Wife Mother Healer of Hearts

Maggie hadn't had the dates put on the stones, although ample space was reserved for them. There was no beginning or end associated with her parents in her mind and, though it had been years, she was not ready to assign such to their markers just yet.

She sat cross-legged between them, and talked quietly with her parents. She told them of the trip to Ireland with the man she had thought to marry; however, for reasons she was not able to name, it had not worked out between them.

"He is a fine man, Mama, don't hold it against him. We know I can be stubborn at times, and I guess some things were just not meant to be."

Maggie swallowed hard before she could continue. It was still something of a tender subject for her. Standing again, she turned her attention to the patches of weeds that had found purchase around the stones, and busied herself with removing them as she turned to brighter subjects.

"Had a Northman help Detre watch the place for me while I was gone to Ireland, Pop....you'd like him. Name's Guthorm. He's a good friend and knows his way around horses. He's got Sugar and Joe now, Pop. He's starting a place of his own and needed some good stock..."

The idle chatter continued in that way for some time before Maggie turned again to the gate, closing it behind her. She didn't say goodbye to her parents, she never did" just a "Talk to you tomorrow?, and she was whistling for Denali to take her home again.

Gods, but she was tired. Maggie slid down into the steaming tub of water with a sigh, letting the weariness seep from her bones. She toyed with the fragrant bubbles (yes, bubbles...she's not a COMPLETE tomboy) as she began to relax.

It had been 3 days since she and Detre, her foreman, set out to work the fences. It had started as a one night trip, but the recent freakish weather had taken it's toll and things took longer than anticipated. Old hands at riding fences, they had packed more supplies than they needed as a matter of habit. Habit had served them well that trip.

The more she relaxed in the bath, the more Maggie's mind wandered. There was that dance in town tonight. Her nose crinkled a bit as she toyed with the idea. She didn't really...dance...not really. She wouldn't mind getting dressed up though. While the Ranch Owner in her had no time for such....the woman in her very much liked getting 'gussied up', as her father would have called it, once in a while.

Her days were easy to fill, running the Painted Pony kept her busy.

The nights were another matter.

And night always came.

"Sleep well, Hawkeye. Good dog."

Maggie's voice cracked as she bid goodbye to her beloved friend of nearly 18 years. He'd been trail companion, hard working ranch-hand, drinking buddy and confidant. In his prime, a magnificent wolf-dog....a GSD/Wolf cross she suspected, but could never be sure, as she had made his acquaintance quite by accident' a half starved pup covered in mud; all legs and ears....and stalking one of their spring foals! Maggie had explained that he could not eat her foal, and he'd made a heartfelt, and slurpy, apology. They'd been fast friends since.

Maggie had feared that this winter would be the last. Hawkeye's muzzle had turned snow white and those beautiful, sharp eyes which had prompted his name were dimmed with age. This morning, when he hadn't come to her call for breakfast, she knew what she would find when she went to look for him. He hadn't wakened, and wouldn't' not here at the Painted Pony at least' but in that place where good dogs are young again, and run free, waiting for us to join them.

She scrubbed the tears away with the back of a gloved hand and finished covering the grave. There, alone in the center of the orchard in the back pasture, Maggie read a poem in eulogy to her friend:

" ?There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.

For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost — if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call — come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there.

People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.

The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.' "

(Where To Bury A Dog, by Ben Hur Lampman)