Page 1 of Riding the Storm
The breeze smells like fresh-cut grass and horse sweat. The kind of mix only someone raised on a Wyoming ranch could appreciate. I lean against the rail of the round pen, watching Soda Pop—a light-brown yearling with a blaze that looks like spilled milk trickling down his nose—circle slowly around the arena. The young girl on his back, Ella Michaels, has her forehead wrinkled in concentration, every muscle in her little body tense, like she’s steering a bucking bronco instead of a gentle gelding barely moving above a jog.
“That’s it,” I call out. “Hands low. Keep your heels down, not up. Keeping them down helps you stay balanced.”
Ella tries—bless her—but she’s nervous. Soda Pop flicks an ear back toward her, patient as ever. He’s got the calm, old-soul temperament I look for in riding-lesson horses. He’s patient, steady, and forgiving. I handpicked him last year at an auction over in Powell, and he was worth every penny.
Ella’s mom, Marlena, watches from the rail, chewing at her lip. She’s one of those moms who hovers like a helicopter, ready to swoop in if her kid coughs too loudly. I’ve learned to ignore that. Ranch kids grow up tough, but the ones from town are often coddled, and it takes time for them to spread their wings and for their parents to let them.
“You’re doing good, El,” I say, raising my voice over Soda’s hoof beats. “Now give him a little squeeze with your legs, just enough to ask him to trot.”
Ella glances at me with a worried look. “What if he goes too fast?”
I smile. “Then you pull back gently and tell him who’s boss. He’ll listen.” Her eyes travel from me to her mother, and I call her attention back to me. “You’ve got this. He trusts you.”
She bites her lip, nods, and squeezes. Soda Pop flicks his tail, thenmoves into a lazy trot, and Ella’s eyes go wide before she looks at me and grins.
“Good job! Keep breathing!” I shout.
Her posture’s perfect for about five strides before she starts to bounce like popcorn in a hot skillet. I climb the rail, ready to catch her if need be, but Soda Pop slows on his own, dropping back to a walk.
Smart boy.
“I lost it,” Ella pants in frustration.
“Nope. You learned something,” I say, walking to fall in step beside them. “That’s half the battle. Riding is partly about controlling yourself and partly about listening to your horse’s cues.”
“What’s the other half of the battle?”
“Learning how to fall and not break your pride.”
She giggles. “Did you ever fall, Miss Charli?”
“More times than I can count.” I grin. “First time, I was about your age. Landed face-first in a puddle of mud. My daddy said I looked like a squirming piglet, trying to learn how to swim.”
Ella’s laughter rings across the arena. Soda Pop stops and lowers his head, licking his lips in expectation of the apple slices I have in my hip pouch—a reward for a job well done.
I help her dismount, and when her boots hit the dirt, she throws her arms around his neck as I unzip my pouch. He nuzzles her shoulder in return, and then she takes a slice from me and offers it to him.
“Good boy, Soda,” she whispers. “You did real good.”
“That’s the trick right there,” I tell her. “You love on them when they try their best, and it lets them know you appreciate ’em. Same as people.”
When Marlena calls her name, Ella skips off. Watching her beam as her mom praises her efforts gives me a strange mix of pride and ache. I’ve taught a lot of kids over the years, but something about Ella reminds me of myself before life got complicated—before I learned that life could be cruel.
I rub Soda Pop’s nose. “You did a good job today, buddy.”
He snorts softly, and I swear he understands.
Marlena leads Ella to their SUV, and I wave to them as I guide Soda Pop back to the barn. The afternoon sun is beginning to slip low over the Tetons, turning the peaks a deep violet against a bright blue sky. The viewnever gets old, even after twenty-six years. It’s the kind of beauty that reminds you it’s a great big, wild world.
Shelby’s voice carries from the next stall over. “Charli, you see what Dad brought home?”
I glance down the aisle and spot my younger sister brushing down her horse, Jupiter Rising. “If it’s another stray dog, Grandma’s gonna have a cow.”
“It’s better.” She smirks, brushing her hair over her shoulder and swiping at her forehead. “A new tractor.”
“Better for who?”
“For all of us,” she says. “Now we don’t have to listen to Matty cursing that old Massey Ferguson every time it breaks down on her.”
