She Sank Into the Mud So the Mare Wouldn’t Be Alone

The mud was cold enough to burn.

Not the kind that squishes between your boots and washes off later.

This mud bit.

It crept through denim and wool and skin, stealing warmth inch by inch.

Erin stopped feeling her toes ten minutes ago.

Didn’t matter.

She wasn’t moving.

Because the mare wasn’t moving either.

The back pen had turned into a swamp after days of rain and sleet. Hoof prints filled with black water. Straw dissolved into sludge. Every step made a sucking sound, like the earth trying to pull you under.

And in the middle of it all—

The horse lay on her side.

Too thin.

Too still.

Ribs sharp against hide. Hips like corners. Raw sores along her shoulders where bone had pressed into frozen ground for hours.

Her breath came rough and shallow, each inhale scraping like sandpaper.

Erin slid down beside her, mud soaking through to her thighs, then her hips.

Didn’t even flinch.

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, voice already breaking.

The mare’s eye rolled weakly toward her.

Cloudy.

Tired.

Still aware.

Still there.

That was enough.

Erin had called the vet an hour ago.

Signal crackling.

Wind howling.

“Shock,” the vet said through the phone. “She’s hypothermic. Keep her warm. Keep her upright if you can. Talk to her. Don’t let her shut down. I’m on my way.”

Don’t let her shut down.

Like you could just ask life to stay.

Like you could bargain with it.

Erin slipped off one glove and pressed her bare hand against the mare’s neck.

Cold.

Too cold.

“Stay with me,” she murmured. “You hear me? Don’t you quit on me.”

The mare tried to lift her head.

Couldn’t.

It dropped back into the mud with a soft thud.

Something inside Erin cracked.

“Okay. Okay—hold on.”

She scooted closer, ignoring the mud soaking through everything, and slid her arms under the mare’s heavy head.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Like lifting glass.

She pulled the head into her lap.

The weight surprised her.

Heavy.

But fragile at the same time.

The mare let out the softest sigh.

Not pain.

Relief.

Like she’d been waiting for that.

“Oh… sweetheart,” Erin breathed.

Her jacket was soaked. Her knees numb. But the mare’s cheek pressed into her stomach like she was searching for warmth.

So Erin wrapped both arms around her face.

Shielding.

Holding.

Like you’d hold a child.

“I know,” she whispered into the wet mane. “I know it hurts. I know.”

Her words fogged in the air.

The mare’s breath came in little bursts against her sleeve.

For a second—just one second—the tension left the animal’s body.

Muscles unclenched.

Jaw relaxed.

Trust.

Just that simple, terrifying trust.

Erin felt tears mixing with rain and dirt on her cheeks.

“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 quiet surrender.

Right into her.

Like Erin was the only solid thing left in the world.

In the distance, barn lights flickered. Someone shouted instructions. A truck engine rumbled closer.

The help was coming.

But time felt thin.

Fragile.

The kind that snaps without warning.

“Stay awake,” Erin murmured. “Stay with me. Breathe. That’s it. Just breathe.”

The mare’s eyelids fluttered.

Slow.

Heavy.

Closing.

“Hey—no, no. Not yet,” Erin said quickly, rubbing the cold neck. “Look at me, girl. You’re not doing this alone. You hear me? Not alone.”

She started talking about nothing.

Everything.

The way you talk to someone you’re scared to lose.

“You remember the spring grass? You love that stuff. You’re gonna be mad if you miss it. And Daisy still steals your feed bucket. You gotta come yell at her for me, okay?”

Her voice wobbled.

“But you don’t get to quit. Not tonight.”

The mare’s ear twitched.

Small.

But there.

“Good girl,” Erin breathed. “That’s my girl.”

Mud seeped into her sleeves.

Cold crawled up her spine.

Her legs trembled from kneeling so long.

Didn’t matter.

If this horse had to fight through the dark—

She wouldn’t do it alone.

Erin tightened her arms, making a little shelter with her body, blocking the wind with her back.

Her heartbeat thudded hard.

Steady.

She hoped the mare could feel it.

Two rhythms.

Trying to sync.

Trying to stay.

Finally, headlights spilled across the pen.

Boots splashed through mud.

“Where is she?”

“Here!” Erin called, voice raw.

The vet slid in beside them, already unpacking supplies. IV bag. Blankets. Hands moving fast.

But Erin didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until she felt that pulse under her palm.

Faint.

But still there.

Still fighting.

She pressed 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.

And for that moment, in the coldest, muddiest corner of the farm, with sirens of wind and engines and shouted orders all around—

There was only this:

One woman.

One exhausted horse.

And the stubborn, fragile decision

to keep breathing

together.