If Wishes Were Horses. W. Kinsella P.

drew deeply on her cigarette, let the smoke out slowly between her teeth.

      She had read my mind. The Renns were, as my father often said, a wild and woolly bunch. ‘Disreputable,’ would be the consensus of the community. Her father was a prodigious drinker. One of her brothers was in jail; the other two were terrors, roaming the countryside in souped-up cars. They drank, fought, fucked, stole anything that wasn’t nailed to the earth. Only the wildest white girls or Indian women from the reservation near Tama were ever seen with Harley or Magnus Renn.