~ Gold Rush Inspection

The morning was already slipping sideways by the time Taylor trudged out into the lower pasture, lead rope in hand and her hat pulled low over her brow. She had been up since dawn prepping for Marjorie's inspection, like brushing out every inch of that maddening, beautiful mare, polishing her hooves until they glowed like a gem, and making sure every hair was in place. Gold Rush, as the registry knew her. But to Taylor? Just Marjorie - and oh, how the name fit; because if ever there was a horse with opinions, flair, and a talent for dramatic exits, it was Marjorie.

Today, she was a gleaming spectacle against the backdrop of sunlit green, her smoky cream tobiano splash coat blazing in the morning light like pearl and satin, patches of soft cream swirling across her muscled frame. Her mane was like pale silk, falling in waves, and her tail was a whisper of moonlight that brushed the grass as she moved. She looked like a fairytale, as always... but she acted like a gremlin. The woman whistled softly as she entered the field, keeping her posture relaxed, the lead rope tucked casually over her shoulder, "Alright, Marge. Let's not do this today, huh? We have company. You want to look good." Marjorie, standing near the far edge of the pasture with her head high and her tail flagged in the breeze, swiveled her ears and promptly trotted away. "Of course you do.", Taylor muttered, starting after her.

And so, the game had begun. Marjorie didn't gallop, no, she floated. Every movement of hers was deliberate, theatrical, and just fast enough to keep herself out of reach. Taylor tried circling, tried waiting her out, even tried bribing her with a carrot - but Marjorie was in full diva mode. When Taylor got within ten feet, the cob snorted, spun on her haunches, and bolted towards the opposite end of the pasture. It went on for a full twenty minutes like this. Eventually, the blonde paused, her calloused hands resting on her hips, breathing harder than she wanted to admit. Somewhere up the hill, the judges were finishing another inspection, no doubt wondering where her entry had gone. She could already imagine their faces. "You have got to be kidding me.", she groaned. Marjorie had stopped beneath the big oak tree near the fenceline, one hind leg cocked in absolute serenity, like she hadn't just led Taylor on a cross-country chase.

Taylor tried again... for another ten minutes. And this time, when she finally got the halter halfway up her nose, Marjorie jerked her head, threw a tantrum, and nearly bowled the woman over in the mud. "Okay-", Taylor hissed, brushing hay off her sleeve and shooting the mare a glare, "That's it. You're officially the worst. Do you want to go to the glue factory?" Marjorie just blinked at her with angelic detachment. Gosh, there was no hope. She wasn't going to get her into the ring like this, not without a rodeo, and not without undoing every bit of the shine and polish she'd spent hours preparing. Taylor looked up the hill, and then back at her uncooperative masterpiece... before turning on her heel and marching up towards the judges.

They were standing near the fence line, clipboards in hand. The steward spotted her first, "Ah, you're Taylor with Gold Rush, yes? You're next."

Taylor nodded, still catching her breath, "So um... about that. Listen, she, uh... she's not really in the mood to be caught."

One of the judges raised a brow, "Not in the mood?"

Taylor gave an apologetic shrug, "She has strong opinions. I figured rather than drag her down here looking like a tornado hit us both, maybe you'd consider walking down to her instead? She's... pristine, I promise. Just extremely uncooperative today."

There was a pause, and then, surprisingly, one of the judges chuckled, "Is she at least pretty from afar?”

"She's stunning.", Taylor said dryly, "Just don't try to touch her." The panel looked at each other, and then, clipboard and all, began the slow descent into the pasture. The woman followed them down and gestured towards the tree line, where Marjorie stood like a statue carved from pearl, her thick head high, her ears alert, her muscular legs square. "There she is.", Taylor announced, "Gold Rush, also known as Marjorie."

The judges stopped a few yards away, pens poised, squinting against the sun. "Well-", one of them muttered, "I see what she means." Marjorie posed like she was born for this, the breeze lifting her mane just so, while her coat shimmered. She tossed her head once more for emphasis. "Unreal color.",  the judge noted, "That smoky cream layering... almost metallic."

"Strong shoulder, elegant neck. Really nice proportions.", another judge agreed, and then tried to step closer. Marjorie instantly bolted. She didn't go far, just twenty yards or so, but she made a full, sweeping loop, with her tail lifted, her legs flashing, before settling again with all the grace of a dressage queen.

Taylor gave the judges a sheepish smile, "Guess she... she um- wanted you to see her movement too, apparently."

"Well, she's got suspension, that's for sure." one judge muttered, scribbling, before pulling out a pair of binoculars, "Let's just do this from here. We're clearly not going to get our hands on her." And so, Marjorie struck a new pose: ears forward, one leg cocked... a perfect, impossible princess. And the inspection went on like that, from a distance. The judges watched her conformation, made notes on her proportions, her build, the harmony of her movement, and they constantly murmured among themselves as she paced, trotted, and struck perfect silhouettes in the sun. Taylor stood by and let it happen, and definitely didn't try to catch her again. It would have been a waste of time; Marjorie had decided the terms of her inspection, and, in typical Marjorie fashion, she made even that look like it had been her idea all along.

When the judges finally finished their notes, one of them turned to Taylor. "She's a showstopper.", she said simply, "And a menace. But definitely a showstopper."

Taylor laughed, exhausted and grateful, "Yeah, that about sums her up." They walked back up the hill, leaving Marjorie to strut her pasture runway in peace, and as the blonde looked over her shoulder one last time, she caught sight of the mare mid-trot with her mane flying and he tail arched high. Hell, even from across the field, she looked like a dream - albeit a wild, glittering... infuriating one. But alas, that was Marjorie: impossible, but unforgettable.