I picture us galloping over the side, flying, then crashing down . . . “Whoa!” I shout, pulling back on the reins. I remember what Winnie said about ask and release. So I pull, let up, then pull. Blackfire puts on the brakes so fast I almost sail over his head. But I catch myself. “Good boy!” I stroke his sweaty neck and ease my seat behind the withers. We’re both panting. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive. Even as I think this, I know it sounds like a soap opera, but there it is—that feeling. In my soul, like Popeye and his woodpeckers. I lay the reins on Blackfire’s neck, and he turns around and starts walking back to the barn as if our ride were nothing more than a little exercise. Halfway there, I hear shouts. Hank’s running toward us, waving his arms. He stops when he sees us walking toward him. He leans over, hands on knees, like he’s trying to get his breath. Wes catches up to Hank the same time I get there and frowns up at me. Then he turns around and heads back to the barn.
