Use your feet to stand in the saddle. Lift so the saddle doesn’t smack you in the butt when the obstinate animal pounds your brains out and dislocates your spine at a trot. Yeah, right. Em had saddle sores on top of bruises on top of chaffing. Of course, the physical woes were inevitable because that harbinger-from-hell she rode, made sure to jolt her six ways to Sunday and back again. They named the damn thing Charmin. What a freaking joke! There was nothing, absolutely nothing, soft about the damn animal. The two men who went with them on the ride looked like they were born to live in the wild, wild, west. Dixon and Drake—twin Adonises. Was that even a word? Okay, maybe Perseus and Hercules, anyway they rode like it was second nature. The men also had enough guns strapped on to rob a stagecoach. Who would have thought smelly old cows could be so scary you needed to wear that many guns? Yeah, they were serious eye candy, but Lord above they never stopped talking.
