Marigold pulls a photo from the pile, smiling softly at whatever she’s looking at. I can’t see it from the other side of the long dining table. Whatever it is also catches Pippa’s attention. “I remember that day perfectly,” Pippa muses, resting her cheek against Mare’s shoulder. “That was the meanest pony.” Mare laughs, flipping the picture around so I can see it. Pippa isn’t the only one that remembers that day. We’d gone to the auction to get some ponies. Pippa and Mare had been begging for their own ponies. They both had their own quarter horses at the time, but it wasn’t enough. Every
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