“The reporters are here, Mr. Hevener,” a voice on the intercom says as barking dogs from the kennel announce cars pulling in the lane.

“Thank you, Maxine,” I say to my book agent. “Show them to the studio, please. I’m not ready yet.”

I select a silk tie to match the Armani suit, pull on custom made Vogel boots and look through my jewelry. Reaching for the diamond watch, I hesitate. Too dressy?

No such thing, I decide, remembering a recent interview for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Why they had insisted on their own pictures instead of what we offered by Calvin Klein’s photographer, I would never know.

I put on the watch, stuff a black handkerchief in my lapel and look in the mirror one last time. You’ve come a long way, I think to myself. A long way from the kid everybody said was “Just a dreamer”. Picking up my riding crop, I walk outside, across the lawns and to the studio.

The next few hours will be spent answering questions for reporters and mugging for photographers here to cover the story of my new novel “Fate of the Stallion!” I wonder what crazy thing they will get me to say or do this time.

But, I’m not all they’ve come to see. Not by a long shot. The star they want is “Nahgua”, the Bay Arabian stallion who has become the first racehorse to hit the American literary scene since Walter Farley’s “The Black” so many years ago.

He trots proud and shiny for them, neighs a few times and munches carrots like a gentleman. He’s beautiful, they say. And they’re right. How old is he? Where did he come from? Where did he run? How did all this happen?

I’m asked those questions many times, especially the last one. And the only thing I can say is, I was at the right place at the right time. What made me hop a train from Philadelphia and borrow a car so I could get to the New Holland Horse Sale that day? I’ll never be able to explain it. Only those who believe in the magic of horse fever can understand such an impulse.

And what made New Holland help me so much? Can you imagine a livestock auction allowing you to buy a horse that had already been sold for slaughter? Asking you if you want to save him? That’s what happened. Not only was I asked if I wanted him, but the auction accepted a down payment until I could pay for him, stopped him from being loaded onto a truck — and allowed him to stay there until I could find a stable that would take a stallion. These things are very uncharacteristic of livestock sales. And they are proof that hearts and angels are found in unlikely places.

As for the Quentin Riding Club, which had no problem stabling him for several years, I wasn’t a member in those days. I didn’t know a soul there when I asked would they board a horse. What made two of its members step forward and sponsor me so I could move Nahgua to the only stable that wasn’t afraid of boarding a stallion?

I was living in Philadelphia at the time, recording with Coffee And Cream Records and exhibiting my art work in several of the South Street galleries. Six months would go by with Nahgua cooped up in a stall while my friend Brenda Lefever wrapped his bowed tendon every day for me. But, the Riding Club would only permit the owner of a horse to take him in or out of his stall. No one else. If Nahgua was going to have the daily turnout he needed, I would have to leave the city and come home.

There wasn’t any choice. This beautiful stallion was giving me something to live for. Something exciting! Little did I know how very real that would turn out to be.

At the time, I thought the rules of the Riding Club were very inconvenient. I would have to move from Philadelphia in order to take care of Nahgua myself? I was a busy artist! How could anyone expect me to do this myself? I remember very clearly the night I realized this as I was going back to the city by train. I was thinking about the many people I knew in the art worlds and how vulnerable their lives actually were. The city can be a dangerous place, no matter if you are young or old, man or woman, and no matter what color you are. Many people I knew had been robbed or attacked and hurt … and the next day the city rolled on as if their lives didn’t count for anything. I counted myself lucky that I had never had such an encounter in my life, but how long could the odds hold out? I pushed such danger out of my mind.

At that time, on return visits to Lancaster County, I would feel out of place. The streets appeared ghostly and empty to me. Green grass, so much of it, appeared too bright and almost hurt my eyes. In town, I’d look at the sidewalks and see just one or two people walking along the block. How can anyone make a living here, I asked myself? Where were all the people? Where are the opportunities? After several years of living from New York to Beverly Hills, I was changing from the country boy I had once been.

On train rides back to Philadelphia on Sunday nights, I would think about how much I looked forward to those weekend visits with Nahgua. I’d think about how often I sat in a corner of his stall, just being there, feeling safe and natural. My heart was never as joyful as it was in those moments … I knew that. And the feeling stayed with me for days after.

My city friends? After a few months, they knew they were losing me. They would never understand my passion for these powerful animals. They thought I was crazy to throw away time that I could have spent making records with Patti LaBelle’s back up singers or Dionne Warwick’s keyboardist or Whitney Houston’s sax player. But, I’ve had a hit record. People in South Beach, Florida and nightclubs around the country are still dancing to my voice, wondering where I am.

I have no regrets. Maybe because of the chaos I was living in, and the career uncertainties of the entertainment business, the order and structure of the horse world suddenly meant more to me than ever before. I had observed so many changes in society during my life, from the artificial “political correctness” that we were supposed to live by, to dishonest government we were supposed to honor, not to mention the roller coaster economy and declining fashion standards. “Balance” and “sensibility” were things I hungered for.

Besides that, as a performer, I had seen audiences from here to Europe. It’s funny that the audience doesn’t realize while they are looking at you, you are also looking back at them. I was disturbed by the decline in personal standards that I sensed happening all around us. Europe may still be quite cultured. But, the “dumbing of America” is very real. Of all the factions of American society, the horse world remains strong and true to its rules and principles. It remains one of the last bastions of formality in our culture. You can’t be drunk and ride a horse well. You can’t be on drugs or unfit. By its very nature, horsemanship invokes personal discipline and healthy conduct.

I didn’t overly think it. After making up my mind, I gave away furniture, packed a truck and said my good byes. I had recorded plenty of good bye songs and I was good at them. Time for ice cream before I go? No, you must hurry, I thought. Go now and don’t look back!

I remember that night very well. It was 10:30 and I was speeding along the turnpike for the rented cottage I had found near the Riding Club, listening to the radio. It would be a long time before I heard that familiar station again, I thought. Then, shaking, I pulled over. I could hardly breathe!

Two people had just been shot to death outside my apartment!

Would I have been one of them, I wondered? Would I have run outside to see what was wrong? It was just like me to do such a thing. Would I have been shot, too? Without Nahgua, I never would have left that night.

His name? It’s an unusual name, isn’t it? I spell it as was pronounced to me by Arabic doctors I met a party not long after I found him. Like many of us, I couldn’t pronounce the name because Arabian owners can get pretty fancy in their spelling. The name is officially registered as “Nugui El Khamsin”. But, when the doctors pronounced it “Nah-gwa” and I found out what the word “Nahgua” actually means, I understood much of what his coming into my life was all about.

You see, the word “Nahgua” means “A guardian spirit residing within an animal” and that has certainly been true.

I am often asked who “Fate of the Stallion!” was really written for. Is it a children’s book? Only if you count children from eight to eighty. Why is the print big? So we can all read it, is my answer. What made you illustrate the novel? The answer to that is very simple. I wanted to present a book like the ones I loved most over the years.

“Fate of the Stallion!” was written for every one of us who grew up reading those great illustrated animal stories that nobody writes enough of anymore. It’s written for all of us who somehow shaped our lives according to what we dreamed about as kids … only now, we’re grown up.

We’re grown up and we have farms and horses and pick up trucks and kids of our own. We have jobs and problems and broken families … and no one to tell us, as horse people, how to deal with those problems.

Do I believe horse people are different? Yes I do, very much so. Not only do I believe our hearts, souls and motives are different from the way society has become, I believe our sense of fun and our outlook on life are urgently important for so many others around us.

I look at my watch now, glad I wore the diamond one. Putting your best foot forward is important, I remind myself, whether in our language, clothing or personal conduct. Uptight? I don’t think so. You only hear such criticism from those too lazy to try. From those who want champions to be couch potatoes.

And so, once again, the reporters are gone. Did the fifth grade teacher who read my stories to the class ever foresee this, I wonder? I watch their cars driving out the lane for New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Reading, York, Lebanon and Lancaster. I hope the pictures turn out OK this time. Did they understand what I was trying to say? Did they take their notes correctly? I won’t know until the stories appear in the papers and then it’s always too late.

Suddenly, all I want to do is ride my horse. I toss Armani and silk onto a hay bale, and lead Nahgua out of his stall again so we can hit the trails. It’s just us now. Horse and friend. It doesn’t matter if reporters get the story wrong, I decide. It doesn’t even matter if the pictures make me look like a clown. What really matters is that horses can make the news at all … and the world still loves them.