The Arab Horse Breeder | مربية الخيول العربية
"She breeds the finest Arabian horses in Jordan. He's the buyer who comes for a stallion—and stays for her."
The Arab Horse Breeder
مربية الخيول العربية
Al-Khayal Stables produces champions.
My family has bred Arabian horses for five generations. The bloodlines are pure, the reputation impeccable.
David wants my best stallion.
I'm Layla.
Forty-three, Jordanian, running the stables since my father died. The only female horse breeder in the region who's taken seriously.
David is an American buyer.
He's fifty.
Texas oil money, started collecting Arabians. He's heard about my horses. He wants to see for himself.
"They don't look like much," he says, studying the herd.
"Neither do you. Appearances deceive."
"Fair enough." He laughs—a good laugh. "Show me why I should pay what you're asking."
I show him.
The bloodlines. The training. The way my horses move like desert wind.
"I'll take him," he says finally. "At your price."
"Which horse?"
"Whichever one you'd miss most."
"Why that one?"
"Because if you'd miss him, he's the best. That's how emotion works."
"That's terrible business logic."
"I'm not here for logic."
He stays for a week.
Learning about Arabian horses, about Bedouin history, about the woman who's spent her life dedicated to both.
"You never married?" he asks.
"Horses are jealous companions. They don't share well."
"Neither do I."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm interested. In more than horses."
"You've known me a week."
"I've known women my whole life. None of them lit up talking about bloodlines the way you do."
"I'm not for sale."
"I'm not buying. I'm... proposing."
"Proposing what?"
"Whatever you'll accept. Conversation. Dinner. A partnership—business or otherwise."
The first kiss happens in the stables.
My champion stallion watching, unimpressed. We taste like dust and possibility.
"This is fast," I say.
"I'm fifty. Fast is all I've got."
"I don't leave Jordan."
"I didn't ask you to."
"My life is here. These horses."
"Then I'll be here too. When I can."
He undresses me in the tack room.
Leather and horses all around us. The smell of my life witnessing this new part.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"You're strong. That's better."
He worships me surrounded by bridles.
His Texas confidence applied to my Jordanian body. When I come, the horses stir.
"Ya Rabb—David—"
"Right there?"
"Aiwa—again—"
Two years later
He splits his time.
Texas winters, Jordan summers. The stables have expanded with his investment.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than any horse I've bred."
"That's pretty happy."
"The happiest."
We married at the stables.
His Texas family bewildered, mine suspicious. But the horses approved.
"Bride arrives on horseback?"
"How else?"
He makes love to me under desert stars.
The same stars my ancestors watched while breeding these horses for centuries.
"Best investment?" he asks.
"Me."
"Obviously." He kisses me. "Obviously you."
Alhamdulillah.
For horses that bring strangers.
For buyers who stay.
For breeders who finally find partners.
The End.