Brent’s horse followed and then Jeems’, with Jeems clinging to pommel and mane.
His hat was gone, his crisp long hair was tumbled in a white mane, his cravat was under one ear, and there were liquor stains down his shirt bosom.
She knew if she once began it would be like the time she cried into the horse’s mane, that dreadful night when Atlanta fell and Rhett had left her on the dark road outside the town, terrible tears that tore her heart and could not be stopped.
The result was a small brown and white Shetland pony with a long silky mane and tail and a tiny sidesaddle with silver trimmings.
She was remembering the vital, virile old man with his mane of crisp white hair, his bellowing cheerfulness, his stamping boots, his clumsy jokes, his generosity.