The mud was cold enough to burn.
Not the kind that squishes between your boots and rinses off with a hose.
This mud bit.
It slipped past denim and wool, past skin, stealing warmth inch by inch until there was nothing left to steal.
Erin had stopped feeling her toes a while ago.
She didn’t check the time.
Didn’t matter.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
Because the mare wasn’t going anywhere either.
The mud was cold enough to burn.
Not the kind that squishes between your boots and rinses off with a hose.
This mud bit.
It slipped past denim and wool, past skin, stealing warmth inch by inch until there was nothing left to steal.
Erin had stopped feeling her toes a while ago.
She didn’t check the time.
Didn’t matter.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
Because the mare wasn’t going anywhere either.
The back pen had turned into a swamp after five straight days of rain and sleet. Hoof prints had filled with black water. Straw dissolved into a gray paste. Every step made a wet sucking sound, like the earth itself was trying to swallow whatever stood on it.
And in the middle of it all—
The horse lay on her side.
Too thin.
Too still.
Her ribs cut sharp lines under her hide. Her hips jutted like broken corners. Angry red sores marked her shoulders where bone had pressed against frozen ground for too long.
Her breathing came rough and shallow. Each inhale scraped like sandpaper.
Erin slid down into the mud beside her, soaking through to her thighs, then her hips.
She didn’t hesitate.
She’d seen this look before.
The look animals get when they’re deciding whether it’s worth fighting anymore.
“Hey… hey, girl,” she whispered, and her voice cracked before she could steady it.
The mare’s eye rolled toward her.
Clouded.
Exhausted.
But aware.
Still there.
That was enough.
She’d called the vet nearly an hour ago, pacing in the sleet while the signal cut in and out.
“Shock,” the vet had said through the wind-distorted line. “She’s hypothermic. Keep her warm. If you can, keep her upright. Talk to her. Don’t let her shut down. I’m on my way.”
Don’t let her shut down.
As if you could bargain with something that ancient.
As if life waited for permission.
Erin peeled off one glove and pressed her bare hand against the mare’s neck.
Cold.
Not cool.
Cold in a way that frightened her.
“Stay with me,” she murmured. “You hear me? Don’t you quit on me.”
The mare tried to lift her head.
It rose an inch.
Maybe two.
Then dropped back into the mud with a dull, defeated sound.
Something inside Erin split open.
“Okay. Okay—hold on.”
She scooted closer, ignoring the sludge seeping through every layer she wore. Carefully—so carefully—she slid her arms beneath the mare’s heavy head.
Like lifting glass.
Like holding something breakable beyond measure.
She eased the weight into her lap.
It startled her—how heavy it felt.
And how fragile.
The mare let out the faintest sigh.
Not pain.
Relief.
As if she’d been waiting for that.
“Oh… sweetheart,” Erin breathed.
The wind cut across the pen, stinging her wet cheeks. Her jacket clung cold against her back. Her knees had gone numb.
But the mare’s cheek pressed into her stomach, searching for warmth.
So Erin wrapped her arms around the horse’s face.
Shielding.
Holding.
The way you’d hold a child.
“I know,” she whispered into the tangled mane. “I know it hurts. I know.”
Her words fogged into the damp air.
The mare’s breath puffed weakly against Erin’s sleeve.
For just a moment—one fragile moment—the tension drained from the animal’s body.
Muscles unclenched.
Jaw loosened.
Trust.
That simple.
That terrifying.
Erin felt tears sliding down, mixing with rain and mud until she couldn’t tell what was what.
“You’re okay,” she said softly. “Lean on me. I’ve got you. All of you. Just lean.”
And the mare did.
All that weight.
All that surrender.
Right into her.
Like Erin was the only solid thing left in the world.
In the distance, barn lights flickered on. A voice shouted. A truck engine rumbled somewhere beyond the fence line.
Help was coming.
But time felt thin.
Like ice under too much weight.
“Stay awake,” Erin murmured. “Stay with me. Breathe. That’s it. Just breathe.”
The mare’s eyelids fluttered.
Slow.
Heavy.
Closing.
“Hey—no. Not yet,” Erin said quickly, rubbing the cold neck with trembling hands. “Look at me. You’re not doing this alone. You hear me? Not alone.”
She started talking.
About nothing.
About everything.
The way people do when silence feels dangerous.
“You remember spring?” she whispered. “You love the first grass. You always shove the others out of the way. And Daisy still steals your feed bucket. You can’t let her get away with that again.”
Her voice wavered, but she kept going.
“You don’t get to quit. Not tonight.”
The mare’s ear flicked.
Just a twitch.
But it was there.
“Good girl,” Erin breathed, almost laughing through tears. “That’s my girl.”
Mud crept into her sleeves. Cold climbed her spine. Her legs trembled from kneeling so long in one position.
She didn’t move.
If this horse had to fight through the dark—
She wouldn’t fight alone.
Erin tightened her arms, curling her body around the mare’s head, blocking the wind with her back. She bent lower, pressing her cheek against the cold white blaze running down the horse’s face.
Her heart pounded hard.
Steady.
She hoped the mare could feel it.
Two rhythms.
Trying to sync.
Trying to stay.
Headlights finally washed across the pen in a sweep of white.
Doors slammed.
Boots splashed toward them.
“Where is she?” a voice called.
“Here!” Erin shouted, her voice raw from wind and fear.
The vet dropped to the mud beside them without hesitation, already pulling supplies from a bag—IV line, fluids, blankets. Hands moved quickly, efficiently.
But Erin didn’t let go.
Not yet.
Not until she felt fingers press to the mare’s jawline.
“Pulse is weak,” the vet muttered. “But it’s there.”
There.
That word felt like oxygen.
They worked fast—threading the line, lifting, covering, adjusting. The mare shuddered once as the cold fluids began to warm her blood.
Erin kept one hand on her neck the entire time.
Waiting.
Praying.
Then—
A flicker.
A stronger breath.
Not scraping.
Not gasping.
Just… deeper.
Erin leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against the mare’s.
“You did good,” she whispered. “You stayed. I knew you would.”
The mare’s breath warmed her wrist.
Soft.
Alive.
Around them, the wind still howled. Engines idled. Voices overlapped in urgent coordination.
But in that cold, ruined pen—
There was only this:
One woman.
One exhausted horse.
And the stubborn, fragile choice
to keep breathing
together.
The back pen had turned into a swamp after five straight days of rain and sleet. Hoof prints had filled with black water. Straw dissolved into a gray paste. Every step made a wet sucking sound, like the earth itself was trying to swallow whatever stood on it.
And in the middle of it all—
The horse lay on her side.
Too thin.
Too still.
Her ribs cut sharp lines under her hide. Her hips jutted like broken corners. Angry red sores marked her shoulders where bone had pressed against frozen ground for too long.
Her breathing came rough and shallow. Each inhale scraped like sandpaper.
Erin slid down into the mud beside her, soaking through to her thighs, then her hips.
She didn’t hesitate.
She’d seen this look before.
The look animals get when they’re deciding whether it’s worth fighting anymore.
“Hey… hey, girl,” she whispered, and her voice cracked before she could steady it.
The mare’s eye rolled toward her.
Clouded.
Exhausted.
But aware.
Still there.
That was enough.
She’d called the vet nearly an hour ago, pacing in the sleet while the signal cut in and out.
“Shock,” the vet had said through the wind-distorted line. “She’s hypothermic. Keep her warm. If you can, keep her upright. Talk to her. Don’t let her shut down. I’m on my way.”
Don’t let her shut down.
As if you could bargain with something that ancient.
As if life waited for permission.
Erin peeled off one glove and pressed her bare hand against the mare’s neck.
Cold.
Not cool.
Cold in a way that frightened her.
“Stay with me,” she murmured. “You hear me? Don’t you quit on me.”
The mare tried to lift her head.
It rose an inch.
Maybe two.
Then dropped back into the mud with a dull, defeated sound.
Something inside Erin split open.
“Okay. Okay—hold on.”
She scooted closer, ignoring the sludge seeping through every layer she wore. Carefully—so carefully—she slid her arms beneath the mare’s heavy head.
Like lifting glass.
Like holding something breakable beyond measure.
She eased the weight into her lap.
It startled her—how heavy it felt.
And how fragile.
The mare let out the faintest sigh.
Not pain.
Relief.
As if she’d been waiting for that.
“Oh… sweetheart,” Erin breathed.
The wind cut across the pen, stinging her wet cheeks. Her jacket clung cold against her back. Her knees had gone numb.
But the mare’s cheek pressed into her stomach, searching for warmth.
So Erin wrapped her arms around the horse’s face.
Shielding.
Holding.
The way you’d hold a child.
“I know,” she whispered into the tangled mane. “I know it hurts. I know.”
Her words fogged into the damp air.
The mare’s breath puffed weakly against Erin’s sleeve.
For just a moment—one fragile moment—the tension drained from the animal’s body.
Muscles unclenched.
Jaw loosened.
Trust.
That simple.
That terrifying.
Erin felt tears sliding down, mixing with rain and mud until she couldn’t tell what was what.
“You’re okay,” she said softly. “Lean on me. I’ve got you. All of you. Just lean.”
And the mare did.
All that weight.
All that surrender.
Right into her.
Like Erin was the only solid thing left in the world.
In the distance, barn lights flickered on. A voice shouted. A truck engine rumbled somewhere beyond the fence line.
Help was coming.
But time felt thin.
Like ice under too much weight.
“Stay awake,” Erin murmured. “Stay with me. Breathe. That’s it. Just breathe.”
The mare’s eyelids fluttered.
Slow.
Heavy.
Closing.
“Hey—no. Not yet,” Erin said quickly, rubbing the cold neck with trembling hands. “Look at me. You’re not doing this alone. You hear me? Not alone.”
She started talking.
About nothing.
About everything.
The way people do when silence feels dangerous.
“You remember spring?” she whispered. “You love the first grass. You always shove the others out of the way. And Daisy still steals your feed bucket. You can’t let her get away with that again.”
Her voice wavered, but she kept going.
“You don’t get to quit. Not tonight.”
The mare’s ear flicked.
Just a twitch.
But it was there.
“Good girl,” Erin breathed, almost laughing through tears. “That’s my girl.”
Mud crept into her sleeves. Cold climbed her spine. Her legs trembled from kneeling so long in one position.
She didn’t move.
If this horse had to fight through the dark—
She wouldn’t fight alone.
Erin tightened her arms, curling her body around the mare’s head, blocking the wind with her back. She bent lower, pressing her cheek against the cold white blaze running down the horse’s face.
Her heart pounded hard.
Steady.
She hoped the mare could feel it.
Two rhythms.
Trying to sync.
Trying to stay.
Headlights finally washed across the pen in a sweep of white.
Doors slammed.
Boots splashed toward them.
“Where is she?” a voice called.
“Here!” Erin shouted, her voice raw from wind and fear.
The vet dropped to the mud beside them without hesitation, already pulling supplies from a bag—IV line, fluids, blankets. Hands moved quickly, efficiently.
But Erin didn’t let go.
Not yet.
Not until she felt fingers press to the mare’s jawline.
“Pulse is weak,” the vet muttered. “But it’s there.”
There.
That word felt like oxygen.
They worked fast—threading the line, lifting, covering, adjusting. The mare shuddered once as the cold fluids began to warm her blood.
Erin kept one hand on her neck the entire time.
Waiting.
Praying.
Then—
A flicker.
A stronger breath.
Not scraping.
Not gasping.
Just… deeper.
Erin leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against the mare’s.
“You did good,” she whispered. “You stayed. I knew you would.”
The mare’s breath warmed her wrist.
Soft.
Alive.
Around them, the wind still howled. Engines idled. Voices overlapped in urgent coordination.
But in that cold, ruined pen—
There was only this:
One woman.
One exhausted horse.
And the stubborn, fragile choice
to keep breathing
together.