Excerpt:

Artemisia knew it was time to drop the foal.  All afternoon she had felt restless and paced on the periphery of the small band of wild horses.  She paused only to graze but without her usual interest.  The sky grew dusky and she stopped chewing altogether, grass still dangling from her muzzle as if she'd forgotten there was food in her mouth.  In recent weeks, her udder had swollen but she had grown accustomed to the tight soreness.  Now, her nipples waxed with small beads of first-milk.

With the promise of darkness, she wandered from the others, her brown-and-white tobiano markings swaying with the cumbersome passenger inside.  Artemisia heard the gentle nickering of her small band of horses: Mary, her daughter; Georgia, her "sister" mare; Wyeth, Georgia's two-year-old colt; and Sargent, the palomino stallion who had sired the offspring.

Before she disappeared over a sage-covered hill, she glanced back and saw Sargent's protective stare and stance: head raised, ears twisting in her direction, front legs braced, as though he were questioning her exit.  He whinnied.  She answered with a low guttural nicker.  She knew that he could not help her now, nor would he follow her.  Artemisia had to face the birth alone, armed only with the instincts of her ancestors.

She lumbered forward with a familiar apprehension.  The birth of her first foal had been successful.  Mary was a strong and healthy two-year-old.  But the memory of last year's foal still burdened Artemisia.  The baby had never risen and stayed lifeless on the ground.  Artemisia had kept vigil for several days, often touching her muzzle to the small body and hoping for a miraculous change.  She had finally returned to the band of horses, alone and despondent, her head dropped low.  Would tonight's foal suffer the same fate.