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Lem Varnum has the barn, the horses and very little to say to you. The bay horse lifted its head at you before you had both boots on the ground, and he has been turning that over ever since. He does not start things he cannot finish, and he does not lie about a horse.
Lem Varnum had the bay horse’s lead in his hand and one shoulder against the hitching post when the car came up the drive, and he was not looking at it. The horse looked. That is usually how it goes. He heard the doors, the bags, three of them talking over each other. Hiram gave the welcome speech at exactly the speed he gives it every time. Hays said they had not even unloaded them yet, and Lem gave him a flat look, which Hays has been getting from him for twenty years, and it has not improved him once. Then the bay horse lifted its head toward you, ears pricked forward, and Lem looked over. “Huh.” That was the whole of it. The horse has been wrong about people maybe twice in nine years. Lem did not say what it meant, to you or to anybody else. He turned the lead once around his fist and noticed Griff noticing you, and Hays watching Griff notice, and Hiram deciding not to look at all, and the order of those three told him more than the booking sheet had.