BAREBACK

Tommy steered his truck off the asphalt and approached the heavy wrought iron gate set between two stone pillars in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Affixed to the center was his figure-eight brand, dark against the green brush of Northern California. In the back seat, Skooter, a long-haired dachshund, rested his snout on the console while Mateo, a white lab mix, stood and panted against the glass. Tommy tapped the remote on his visor. The iron hinges groaned as the gate parted, swinging wide enough for him to roll through the trees. Oak branches formed a low canopy overhead, breaking the morning sun into scattered patches on the hood. He cleared the timberline and stopped the truck where the woods opened into wide prairie grass, facing the mountains that rose up blue and clear in the distance. At sixty, his face showed the years spent under the sun and wind, lines creased deep around his eyes. He leaned his forearms against the steering wheel and looked out over the quiet land, letting the silence settle into his bones.

The quiet took him back fifty-five years, away from California, into the dark bedroom of a boy in 1961. The moonlight in Midland, Texas, came through the window and hit the bed where five-year-old Tommy lay flat on his back. His head was shaved into a tight burr with a little bumper of hair left above his forehead. A plastic shade on the bedside lamp had bucking horses stamped on the parchment, throwing round shadows across the dresser where small toy horses stood in a neat row. He pulled his knees up and clenched his eyes tight. He clamped his mouth shut, pinched his nostrils with his fingers, and stopped breathing entirely. I don't want to be here, he thought, pressing the air down inside his chest until his ears hummed with blood. I don't want to be here. His lungs burned, but he refused to take a draft of air. Slowly, the heat in his neck turned cold, his head slipped to the side against the pillow, and the bedroom drifted away into black nothing.

The flat dirt of Midland remained when the sun came up. The country stretched out level toward every horizon, broken only by mesquite scrub, tumbleweeds, and dust devils that rose up yellow against the pale sky. In the oil patch outside town, five roughnecks coated in dark crude wrestled heavy drill pipe into place on an iron platform, their boots slipping on the grease while metal banged on metal. A couple of miles south, cowboys hung over the rails of a chute, laughing as a young hand climbed onto a cross-bred bull. The gate swung open with a screech, the bull dropped its shoulder, and the rider went flying into the caliche dust before he could find his balance.

By 1966, Tommy had turned ten, but he was still small and skinny with the same short burr cut. He walked across the elementary school playground with his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes on the caliche gravel so he would not trip. A shadow fell across him. Three older boys moved in to cut him off from the blacktop, their boots kicking up dry dirt. The tallest boy stepped sideways and stuck out his heavy work boot. Tommy hit the hard dirt on his hands and knees, tearing his denim trousers and scraping the skin off his palms. The boys laughed, circling him like dogs around a stray cat.

"Look at the little runty one," the big boy said, spitting into the dust near Tommy's knee. "What're you gonna do, cry for your mama?"

Tommy got his feet under him without looking at his bleeding hands. He did not say a word. He stepped forward, drove his right fist straight into the big boy's stomach with everything he had, and watched him fold over with a wet grunt. The boy dropped to his knees in the weeds, gasping for air. The other two stepped back, unsure of what had just happened. Tommy stood over the boy with his teeth set together hard. I don't cry, he told himself, tasting the alkali dust in his mouth. I don't cry for nobody. He turned his back on them and walked off toward the schoolhouse gate, keeping his pace steady and slow so they wouldn't see him run.

The bell rang at three, and Tommy pedaled his bicycle down the wide, flat streets of the residential neighborhood. Midland was neat on the surface, full of low brick ranch homes with manicured bermuda lawns funded by the oil boom. He dropped his bike on the grass by the front porch and pushed through the screen door. The house was cold from the refrigerated air, smelling of stale cigarette smoke, carpet cleaner, and something sour that made his stomach turn.

"Mom?" he called out, walking down the carpeted hallway.

No one answered. The door to his parents' bedroom was halfway open. Tommy stepped past the frame and stopped. His mother, Mary, lay sprawled on the blue carpet next to the low dresser. She was thirty-five, a pretty woman with dark hair, but she was tangled in her nightgown with her face turned against the floorboards. A dark puddle of vomit soaked into the fibers near her mouth, and an empty bottle of Smirnoff vodka lay on its side under the edge of the dust ruffle. Her breathing came slow and rattling through her nose.

Tommy didn't scream or run. He walked back down the hall to the small bedroom his older brother shared with Johnny. Mike sat on his bed, twelve years old and quiet, tossing a rubber ball against the wall.

"Mike," Tommy said, his voice flat. "It's Mom. She's on the floor again."

Mike caught the ball and held it in his palm. He had dark eyes and brown hair that didn't look like anyone else's in the family, and he didn't ask what had happened. He stood up, walked into the master bedroom, and looked at Mary where she lay. He went into the adjoining bathroom, came back with a wet yellow washcloth, and knelt beside her. Tommy knelt on the other side. Together, they wiped the sour bile from her chin and cheeks. Mary muttered something weak, her eyelids fluttering without opening, her breath thick with the smell of cheap grain alcohol.

"Grab her arm and let's pull together," Mike said quietly.

Tommy got his hands under Mary's left shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric of her nightgown, while Mike took her right arm. They hauled her dead weight off the carpet, her bare feet dragging across the rug until they got her hips onto the mattress. They pushed her legs up and pulled the floral bedspread over her shoulders. Mary turned her face into the pillow with a low, miserable groan and went back to sleep. Tommy picked up the glass bottle by the neck, took it to the kitchen, and dropped it into the bottom of the trash bin beneath old coffee grounds and newspapers so nobody would see it right away.

The house felt suffocating. Tommy went back out to the front yard, jumped onto his bicycle, and pedaled hard away from the neighborhood. He rode south toward the edge of town, where the asphalt turned into hard-packed dirt and the pastures stretched out flat beneath the sun. A painted wooden sign marked the entrance to the Midland Polo Club. Large barns of green-painted wood stood in a row beside white pipe corrals, and polo ponies hung their heads over the Dutch doors, swishing flies away with their tails. A transistor radio sat on an upturned wooden bucket by the wash rack, playing Jack Greene's "There Goes My Everything."

Tommy leaned his bike against a fence post and walked down the dirt aisle. The smell of sweet alfalfa, leather, and horse sweat washed over him, clean and honest compared to the sour air of his mother's bedroom. A tall man in his late thirties stood outside one of the tack rooms, holding an oiled headstall. Ray had dark black hair combed smooth, sharp brown eyes, and high cheekbones, wearing a crisp Western shirt tucked into clean denim trousers and pointed roper boots.

"What are you looking for, boy?" Ray asked in his smooth, low voice, looking Tommy up and down.

"Work," Tommy said, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. "I can clean stalls. I can brush the horses."

Ray leaned against the tack room doorframe, a small grin touching his mouth. "You're pretty small to be shoveling horse shit. How old are you?"

"Ten. But I work hard. I don't get tired."

Ray looked at the skinny boy's scraped hands and the straight way he stood. "All right. Two dollars for the weekend. You clean stalls, haul water buckets, and maybe I let you walk the ponies when they come off the field. Be here Saturday morning at six."

"I'll be here," Tommy said, turning back toward his bike with a quick nod.

That evening, the dining room in the Ellison house was silent except for the clinking of silverware on porcelain. Tom Ellison, twenty-eight, sat at the head of the table in his navy blue suit trousers and a white shirt with the cuffs rolled back. His dark hair was already thinning across the crown, and he had an unlit cigar clenched tight between his molars as he cut his roast beef. Mary sat across from him, wearing a high-collared dress, her skin pale and waxy, picking at her green beans without looking anyone in the eye. Johnny, four years old, swung his legs from his chair, while Mike ate quickly without looking up.

Tommy set his fork down on the rim of his plate. "Dad," he said, the word cutting through the quiet room.

Tom didn't look up from his meat. "What is it, Tommy?"

"Mom was on the floor today. She couldn't get up. We had to carry her into the bed."

Tom stopped cutting. His jaw tightened around the unlit cigar, his teeth making a dry creaking sound against the dried tobacco leaf. He looked over at Mary, who kept her eyes fixed entirely on her plate, her fingers trembling against her water glass. Then Tom turned his gray eyes on Tommy, cold and flat.

"That's enough of that," Tom said, his voice hard as iron. "Your mother has had a very hard time. She lost her parents and her sister all at once. She is grieving. We don't talk about these things at the table. This is family business, and you keep your mouth shut about it. Do you hear me?"

"She was sick, Dad. There was a bottle—"

"Hell, no!" Tom snapped, bringing his fist down on the wood with a heavy thud that rattled the glasses. "I said shut your mouth. She will get over it in her own time. We don't talk about it, not here, not anywhere. Eat your food."

Tommy looked at his father's broad, immovable face. He looked at his mother, who shrank slightly into her seat and refused to speak. He understood then that nothing would ever be fixed in this house. The truth was something you buried under the floorboards and pretended didn't smell. He picked up his fork and swallowed his potatoes dry, feeling the coldness settle inside his ribs like a stone.

Later that night, the house was dark and still. Tommy crept down the hallway in his bare feet to get a glass of water from the kitchen. As he passed the open doorway of the den, he saw a sliver of light coming from the desk lamp. His mother sat on the edge of the leather armchair, wearing her faded robe. A half-empty highball glass of clear vodka sat on the desk beside her. In her thin hands, she held a folded sheet of yellowing paper, her thumbs stroking the creases where the words were written. She was weeping without making a sound, tears sliding down her pale cheeks and dropping onto the parchment. At the top of the page, visible in the glow of the desk bulb, were three words written in heavy pencil: My Love.

Mary pressed the letter against her chest, her mind pulled back twelve years to the church chapel in Iowa City, Iowa, in the hot summer of 1954. She stood at the small altar in her plain white wedding dress, her bouquet of baby's breath trembling in her fingers as she looked at Tom, standing rigid and proud in his dark suit. She had leaned toward his ear just before the preacher began the vows, her voice a terrified whisper under the organ music. I'm having a baby, Tom. It's Michael's. Tom's expression had hardened into an emotionless mask, his jaw setting as he nodded once, looking straight ahead at the cross. He had taken her hand and repeated the vows, sealing a bargain of silence that had hung over their lives ever since, while the real father of her child lay buried beneath the red dirt of Korea.

Tommy watched her from the shadows of the doorway. He didn't know about Iowa, and he didn't know about Korea, but he knew the hollow look in her eyes was something no one in the house could cure. He backed away quietly into the dark and went back to his room without making a sound.

Saturday morning came with a bright, harsh sun rising over the polo fields. The radio on the tack room stoop was turned to David Houston singing "Almost Persuaded," the steel guitar twanging through the morning breeze. Tommy had already cleaned six stalls, piling the soiled straw into a wheelbarrow and wheeling it out to the manure heap behind the barn. His shoulders burned, but he kept moving, determined not to let Ray say he was too small for the work.

Ray came out of the main barn leading a tall, muscular flea-bitten gray gelding with lean legs and a scarred hip. The horse tossed his head, snorting at the cool air, his white coat catching the morning light.

"This is Ghost," Ray said, handing the lead rope to Tommy. "He needs some wind knocked out of him. Take him out to the pasture and ride him bareback. Work him until he breaks a sweat, or he'll be too hot for the afternoon match."

Tommy took the cotton lead rope, looking up at the high withers of the gray. He was barely tall enough to reach the horse's shoulder. Ray stepped behind Tommy, his boots crunching in the dirt. Suddenly, Ray reached out and placed his heavy hand on Tommy's thigh, his fingers gripping the boy's leg and sliding slowly upward toward his hip, his thumb pressing into the denim.

"You're a strong boy, aren't you?" Ray murmured, his breath hot against the back of Tommy's neck. "You got good legs for riding."

Tommy froze, a knot of cold dread tightening in his stomach. He didn't like the feel of the man's hand, the heavy weight of it, or the strange, hushed way he spoke. Tommy shoved his foot into the stirrup leather tied around the horse's neck, gripped the gray's coarse mane with both hands, and scrambled up onto Ghost's back in one quick motion, tearing his leg away from Ray's grip. He kicked the horse's ribs with his bare sneakers, and the gray leapt forward into a trot, carrying Tommy away toward the wide prairie grass before Ray could say another word.

Out in the open field, the breeze hit Tommy's face and swept away the heat of the barn. Ghost was strong and rough, his back broad under Tommy's thighs. They moved past the fence lines, deep into the mesquite where the polo fields faded into raw West Texas brush. Tommy pulled on the halter rope to turn the horse, but Ghost was stiff in the mouth, fighting the turn and tossing his heavy head.

Then, standing beside a clump of twisted cedar at the edge of the scrub, an old man stood looking at them. He wore faded clothes, his skin dark and weathered like old saddle leather, and a single brown hawk feather was tucked into his gray hair. He didn't move or speak, but he hummed a low, melancholy tune that seemed to ride on the wind. The old man raised a hand, pointing his finger toward the earth, tracing a smooth, continuous pattern in the dust—two interlocking circles forming a perfect figure eight.

Ghost stopped tossing his head. Tommy stared at the old man, his hands loosening on the rope. He didn't feel afraid. The old man nodded once, his eyes calm and dark. Tommy leaned his weight slightly into his left thigh, looking through the horse's ears along the curve the man had drawn. Ghost responded immediately, stepping softly into a wide, balanced circle to the left, then straightening and bending fluidly into a matching circle to the right. The horse's stride lengthened, becoming smooth and rhythmic, the tension melting from his neck. Tommy rode the figure eight again and again, feeling the horse's spine move beneath him like a wave, perfectly balanced, completely calm.

When Tommy finally guided Ghost back toward the polo barn an hour later, the gray was breathing easily, his coat dry and cool, his head dropped low in contentment. Ray was sitting on an upturned wooden crate by the wash rack, cleaning a pair of spurs. He stood up as Tommy slid off the horse's back, his brow furrowing in irritation as he laid his hand against Ghost's neck.

"What the hell is this?" Ray snapped, his voice sharp. "He isn't even warm! I told you to run the piss out of him, boy. You've been gone an hour, and he's cooler than when you left. Did you just sit under a tree?"

"No," Tommy said, holding the lead rope firm. "He was fighting me, but an old man showed me what to do. Out in the brush. He showed me how to ride him in a figure eight. It settled him down."

Ray stared at him, then let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "An old man? What the hell kind of lie is that? There ain't nobody out there but jackrabbits and dirt. You don't know shit about horses, kid. If you're gonna ride for me, you do what I tell you, or you won't get a damn dime."

Tommy didn't argue. He led Ghost into the stall, unbuckled the halter, and hung it on the wall. He knew what he had seen, and he knew how the horse had moved. Ray's shouting didn't change that.

The next morning, Tommy arrived at the barn before the sun had cleared the horizon. The horses were quiet, chewing their hay in the dim stalls. He went into the feed room to get a bale of alfalfa. As he hauled a heavy square bale off the stack, something bright fell from the loose straw onto the dirt floor. Tommy picked it up. It was a glossy adult magazine, dog-eared and bent at the corners, showing pictures of naked women with heavily painted faces. Tommy looked at it with mild curiosity, never having seen anything like it, and tossed it onto an upturned wooden bucket by the door.

A soft footstep sounded behind him. Ray stepped into the narrow stall, blocking the doorway with his wide shoulders. The barn was dead quiet, the other hands not yet arrived for the morning shift. Ray looked down at the magazine on the bucket, then looked at Tommy, his eyes heavy and narrow.

"Found my book, did you?" Ray asked, his voice low and strange. He reached out and caught Tommy by the upper arm, pulling the boy back toward the darker corner of the stall against the wooden partition. "You like looking at that? You want to see how men do things?"

Tommy tried to pull his arm back, but Ray's grip was like iron. "Let go," Tommy said, his voice rising, panic clawing at his chest. "I have to feed the horses."

"Don't worry about the horses," Ray whispered, stepping closer, his other hand reaching down toward his own belt buckle while he shoved Tommy against the rough boards. "You just do what I tell you, Tommy. Nobody's gotta know. You just touch it—"

A sudden, furious crash shattered the quiet of the aisle. The half-door of the adjoining stall slammed back against the wall with the sound of cracking timber. Ghost, his ears pinned flat to his skull, charged into the open breezeway with his teeth bared and his white eyes rolling. The gray horse lunged straight into the stall doorway, striking the dirt with both front hooves and snapping his powerful jaws right at Ray's shoulder with a vicious, guttural squeal.

Ray yelled in terror, letting go of Tommy's arm and stumbling backward into the aisle dirt. "Get back! Get the hell back!" Ray scrambled to his feet, clutching his torn shirt sleeve where Ghost's teeth had grazed the fabric. The horse stood squarely in front of Tommy, blocking the boy completely, his nostrils flaring wide, stamping his iron-shod hooves against the caliche floor. Ray backed away down the aisle, his face pale as chalk, swearing in rapid, broken Spanish until he reached the tack room and slammed the door behind him.

Tommy stood trembling in the hay, his heart pounding in his throat. He reached out with a shaky hand and touched Ghost's neck. The gray horse let out a long, blowing snort, lowered his head, and rested his velvet muzzle against Tommy's chest. Tommy buried his face in the coarse white mane, breathing in the clean scent of dust and leather. Good boy, he thought, his fingers gripping the mane tight. Good boy.

Later that afternoon, needing to get far away from Ray, Tommy rode his bicycle past the polo fields toward the neighboring property. High Sky Stable sat behind a white wooden fence, with tall, green jumps set up in a neat sand arena. Tommy stopped his bike by the rail and watched. A blonde girl about his age named Missy was riding a handsome chestnut horse with a broad white blaze down its face. She wore English breeches and black boots, her posture upright and neat as she guided the horse toward a three-foot jump. The chestnut took off smoothly, folding its knees tight, soaring over the rails and landing on the other side with light, rhythmic strides.

Tommy watched with his fingers wrapped around the top rail of the white fence. He had never seen a horse jump like that, clearing obstacles in the air as if gravity didn't matter. It looked like flying, pure and unbroken. When Missy trotted her chestnut toward the gate, Tommy called out to her.

"Hey," he said, nodding toward the horse. "What kind of riding is that?"

Missy pulled up, smiling at him. "Show jumping. Hunt seat. Josh is the trainer here. He trains jumpers for the shows."

"Can anyone learn?"

"If you have a horse," she said, adjusting her reins. "And if you're tough enough. Josh doesn't take on sissies."

Tommy thought about that all through the evening. When he returned to the polo barn to collect his two dollars, Ray wouldn't look him in the eye. Ray kept his distance by the wash rack, wiping down a worn leather saddle with a rag, his hands nervous.

"I got an ex-racehorse over in the lower pasture," Ray said abruptly, his voice tight and sullen. "Thoroughbred named Amberdoo. Bay gelding. Fast, but he's off the track and he's too big for polo. I'll sell him to you for seven hundred dollars. You want him or not?"

Seven hundred dollars was a fortune. But Tommy knew this was his only way out of the polo barn, his only chance to learn to jump. "Don't sell him," Tommy said. "I'll get the money."

The next evening, Tommy walked across the manicured green lawn of the Midland Country Club. The clubhouse was low and modern, filled with wealthy oilmen in linen jackets and women in pastel dresses sipping gin and tonics. Tommy slipped through the side entrance into the men's locker room, the air thick with steam, wintergreen rubbing alcohol, and expensive cologne. His father was sitting on a green vinyl bench, pulling on a pair of polished golf shoes.

"Dad," Tommy said, standing in front of him.

Tom looked up, a scowl immediately settling across his features. "What are you doing here, Tommy? You know kids aren't supposed to be running through the club locker room."

"I need seven hundred dollars. There's a racehorse at the polo barn. His name is Amberdoo. I want to buy him and train him to jump at High Sky Stable."

Tom laughed, a short, barking sound that held no humor. "Seven hundred dollars? Have you lost your damn mind? Money doesn't grow on mesquite bushes, boy. I'm not buying you a racehorse so you can mess around in the dirt."

"I'll pay you back," Tommy said, his jaw set square. "I'll work the stalls. I'll do whatever you want."

"Hell, no," Tom said, tying his laces with a sharp pull. "Go home. We aren't wasting money on horses."

Tommy didn't leave it there. When they got home that night, he stood in the kitchen while his mother rinsed dishes at the sink. Mary looked small under the yellow kitchen light, her face bruised and tired, but she was sober tonight, her movements careful and slow.

"Mom," Tommy said, his voice quiet. "There's a horse. Amberdoo. If I have him, I can ride at High Sky. I can be good at it."

Mary turned from the sink, wiping her hands on an apron. She looked at Tommy's face, seeing the fierce, desperate hunger in his eyes—a hunger she recognized, a need to escape a life that felt like a cage. Tom walked into the kitchen, carrying the evening paper, and Mary stepped between them.

"Tom," she said, her voice soft but surprisingly firm. "Buy him the horse."

Tom stopped, lowering the paper with an incredulous glare. "Mary, it's seven hundred dollars. We don't have that kind of money to throw away on an animal."

"Buy him the horse," she repeated, looking her husband straight in the eye for the first time in months. "He doesn't ask for anything. Let him have this. Please, Tom."

Tom looked at his wife, then at Tommy standing by the refrigerator with his fists clenched at his sides. He let out a long, disgusted breath, shaking his head. "Fine," Tom grumbled, throwing the paper onto the table. "I'll write the damn check tomorrow. But you clean the stalls yourself, boy. If that animal starves, it's on your head."

Two days later, Tommy led Amberdoo down the dirt road toward High Sky Stable. The bay thoroughbred walked proudly, his coat shining like a polished copper penny, his dark mane falling neatly over his muscular neck. He was sixteen two hands high, a real athlete, his long legs moving with athletic grace. Tommy felt ten feet tall holding the leather lead shank.

At High Sky, the head trainer, Josh, stood in the center of the jumping ring leaning against an arena post. Josh was twenty-four, weathered by the West Texas wind, wearing a sweat-stained cowboy hat, dusty jeans, and heavy boots. He chewed on a toothpick, his eyes cold and calculating as he watched Tommy lead the big bay through the gate.

"So you're the kid who thinks he wants to jump," Josh said, not moving from the fence. His voice was rough, full of dry scorn. "Nice horse. Too much horse for a runt like you."

"I can ride him," Tommy said flatly.

"We'll see," Josh spit his toothpick into the sand. "Get on him. Let's see what you got, or if your daddy just bought you a lawn ornament."

Tommy led Amberdoo to the mounting block, swung into the saddle, and picked up his reins. The bay felt alive beneath him, stepping out with power and spring. Josh stood in the center of the ring, pointing toward a small line of two-foot crossrails. "Take him over the trot poles and hit the crossrail. Keep your heels down and your hands soft, boy."

Tommy sent Amberdoo forward into a trot. The horse moved smoothly, clearing the poles and bounding lightly over the small jump. Tommy sat deep, his balance natural, his instincts sharp. But as they rounded the corner toward a higher oxer, Tommy let his upper body lean slightly forward before the takeoff. Amberdoo stops and Tommy almost falls off. Josh yells! "come around again."

Without warning, a sharp pain exploded against Tommy's right kneecap. A jagged caliche rock, thrown hard and fast from the center of the ring, struck his bone with a sickening crack. The impact sent a bolt of fire shooting up his thigh, nearly knocking his leg out of the stirrup.

Tommy hauled back on the reins, circling Amberdoo while grabbing his knee in agony. He looked toward the center of the ring, his vision blurring with tears of pain. Josh stood there with his arm still lowered, a cruel smirk on his face.

"Keep your damn leg underneath you!" Josh yelled, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron barn roof. "You lean forward like a sack of potatoes, and your horse will drop you every time! You want to cry, boy? You go home to your mama and cry. Out here, you take your lumps!"

Tommy clamped his jaw shut. The throbbing in his knee was intense, his skin already bruising through the denim, but he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He forced his foot back into the stirrup, gripped the reins, and squared his shoulders. I don't cry, he told himself fiercely. Never.

"Again," Tommy said, his voice shaking only slightly. "Put it higher."

Josh stared at the boy for a long moment, the smirk slowly fading from his mouth. A spark of cold respect flickered in the trainer's pale eyes. "All right, tough guy," Josh muttered, walking toward the jump to raise the rails. "Let's see what you're made of."

For the next three days, Tommy rode until his breeches were soaked with sweat and his knee swelled the size of a grapefruit. He didn't complain once, icing his leg at night with frozen peas from the freezer while his parents drank in the front room. He showed up every morning at dawn, grooming the horses, cleaning the stalls, and listening to every barked command Josh threw at him.

By the end of the week, Josh called Tommy into the small, messy barn office. Saddles, bridles, and empty beer cans were piled on the floor, and a metal gun rack hung behind the desk holding a 12-gauge shotgun. Josh leaned back in his squeaking leather chair, rolling a cigarette between his calloused fingers.

"I got a problem, Tommy," Josh said, striking a match on the edge of the wooden desk. "I got a chestnut mare out in barn two. Belonged to an oilman's daughter, but the mare started refusing. Stops at every single fence. Dirty stopper. The owner's giving up on her, and I can buy her cheap if I can fix her. But she's stubborn as hell."

"How do you fix a stopper?" Tommy asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Josh blew a thick cloud of blue tobacco smoke toward the ceiling. "You give them a reason to jump. We're gonna load up some light shotgun shells with uncooked rice. Just enough to sting her rump without breaking the skin. I need someone light on her back who won't get bucked off when the gun goes off. You got the best balance of any kid I've seen. You game?"

Tommy looked at the trainer. It was cruel and dangerous, but Josh was looking at him like a partner, not a hired hand. The need to prove he wasn't afraid of anything overwhelmed every caution. "I'm game," Tommy said.

That evening, after the other boarders had gone home, the barn arena was dark except for the floodlights hummed above the sand. The air was cool and still. Josh led the chestnut mare into the ring. She was a fiery, nervous animal, her ears twitching constantly, rolling her eyes at the tall wall jump set up in the middle of the arena.

Tommy swung onto her bare back, holding only a thick snaffle bridle. The mare danced sideways, sensing the tension in the cool air. Josh stood twenty feet behind the jump in the shadows, holding the heavy shotgun broken open over his arm, two red shells loaded into the chambers.

"Take her at a hard canter straight at the wall!" Josh shouted, closing the breech with a sharp, oily click. "Keep her straight! When she thinks about stopping, hold on to your hat!"

Tommy gathered the reins tight in his hands and squeezed his calves against the mare's ribs. The horse surged forward, her hooves kicking up clouds of sand. As they approached the heavy wooden wall, the mare suddenly dug her front hooves into the dirt, dropping her head and preparing to plant herself dead in her tracks.

BOOM!

A roar like thunder cracked through the indoor arena, orange flame spitting from the barrel into the dust behind the mare's hocks. The sting of the hard rice pellets peppered the horse's rump. The mare let out a terrified grunt and launched herself violently into the air, leaping five feet clear over the top rail of the wall.

Tommy felt the world fall out from beneath him. The sudden explosion rattled his teeth, the smell of burnt gunpowder filling his nose. The mare twisted in mid-air, but Tommy didn't panic. He clamped his thighs tight against her sides, leaned his chest flat along her neck, and stayed centered over her withers like a burr stuck to wool. They landed with a heavy thump on the other side, the mare bolting across the arena in a blind gallop.

Instead of pulling back on the reins and fighting her panic, Tommy remembered the figure eight. He sat deep, gently weighting his inside stirrup leather, guiding the terrified mare into a wide, sweeping turn to the left. As she began to slow, he shifted his balance and curved her smoothly to the right, weaving the continuous pattern across the sand arena.

Circle left. Circle right. The rhythmic movement worked through the mare's terror. Her breathing slowed from wild snorts to a steady rhythm, her ears coming forward as she found her balance beneath him. Within three minutes, the chestnut mare was trotting calmly on a loose rein, completely under his control.

Josh stood by the arena gate, lowering the smoking barrel of the shotgun, his mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief. He watched the ten-year-old boy guide the difficult mare in perfect, flowing loops through the sand, clearing the lower practice jumps without a single hesitation.

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?" Josh asked, his voice subdued as Tommy trotted the mare back to the gate and halted.

Tommy sat straight on the mare's back, his scraped hands steady on the leather reins, the pain in his knee gone completely numb. He looked past the lights of High Sky Stable, out toward the dark, empty miles of West Texas brush where the dust devils blew under the moon.

"From the polo players," Tommy said quietly, keeping his face smooth and unreadable. "And an old man in the brush."

Josh shook his head, spitting onto the rail. "Whatever you say, kid. But you're riding for me from now on. We got work to do."

Tommy looked down at the mare's damp neck, his fingers stroking her chestnut coat. He had found a place where he had control, where no one could hit him, and where the sour smell of his mother's room couldn't reach him. He rode the mare back out into the center of the ring, turning her into another wide, perfect figure eight under the cold arena lights.