Page 19 of Riding the Storm
“Great,” I mutter. “If only you’d do the same, we’d be getting somewhere.”
That earns a small laugh from her. I shouldn’t care that she finds me funny, but something about the sound crawls under my skin.
She pushes off the fence and walks toward me, her boots crunching over the sand. The late afternoon sunlight catches the dust swirling around her, highlighting her face, and the sight makes it really damn hard for me to stay irritated.
“All right, hook him on the lunge line. I want you to get him trotting a few circles. See how you handle him when he picks up a little speed.”
I release the reins and attach the nylon rope to his bridle. Then I grip the loop and flick my wrist.
“Stop,” she barks just before I jerk the line.
“You don’t wrap a lunge line around your wrist,” she says. “If that horse panics, he’ll yank your damn hand off.”
I look down to see I’ve wrapped the rope tightly around my right wrist several times.
Shit, I didn’t even realize I’d done that.
I unwind it quickly. “Damn, habit,” I say as I look up at her.
She nods. “Exactly. That’s the kind of thing we want to break you from. Bronc riders don’t wrap the rope around their hand for a tight grip. They hold on to a rein or rope with one hand. Why do bull riders wrap the rope?” She looks at me expectantly.
“To help us hold on for as long as fucking possible,” I say, answering what I think is a stupid question.
“Right. Bronc riders don’t just buckle down and try to hold on via strength and pure will; they hold the rein in a way that allows them to follow the horse’s movements and stay balanced on its back.”
I don’t say anything else. Instead, I focus back on the animal. I cluck and then crack the rope.
The horse hesitates, then trots off, head bobbing. It’s not exactly graceful. He cuts his circle too tight, and I end up sidestepping quick to keep out of his way.
“Relax your shoulders,” she commands. “Don’t let him crowd you.”
“I’m trying!” I shoot back.
“He’s reading you, Bryce. If you’re tense, he’s tense. If you’re frustrated, he’s gonna push your buttons.”
“He’s not the one pushing my buttons,” I snap.
“You have to learn to control your emotions, cowboy,” she says evenly.
That makes me pause. The horse flicks an ear toward me, slowing a little.
“Better,” Charli says, her voice low and smooth, like she’s talking to the horse instead of me. “Now change direction.”
I exhale hard and tug the line gently, stepping toward his hip. The stallion slows, pivots, and goes the other way. I glance at her again. She’s smiling now, just slightly, and it pisses me off that I feel proud of myself.
What the fuck?
After a few minutes, sweat’s running down my back, my hat’s sticking to my forehead, and I’ve had enough. I stop the horse, reel in the rope, and run a hand over my face.
“Can we be done?” I ask as I glance at Charli. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t see what the hell walking this horse around in a circle has to do with bronc riding.”
Charli crosses her arms, one eyebrow lifting. “Groundwork helps improve a horse’s responsiveness to cues, balance, and focus.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I bite out. “But what does that have to do with me? I’m not training a horse to run barrels. I’m here to train for saddle bronc. You know, getting bucked off in eight seconds or less.”
Her mouth curves into that damn teasing grin. “Because, cowboy, you need to learn those three things yourself—responsiveness, balance, and focus.”
I blink at her. “Excuse me?”
