They come back with Dolly a bigger mess than ever: legs flying apart, back flat on the saddle, head spazzing all over Monty’s ample lap. Monty has a good lock on her, but it’s doubtful that her mangled shirt and shorts can hold up to the pressure for long. Huffing and yelling, they manage to get her back in her chair and strapped down. Through it all, the blabbing never stops.

Monty leans on the fence. Still winded, he asks Sara, “Ready for a ride?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll pass.”

“Come on,” Monty’s assistant says. “Don’t be afraid!”

“It’s not that I’m afraid,” Sara says frostily. “It’s that I don’t like to ride.”

“Have you ever tried it?” Monty asks. “Nooo? You can’t know for sure you don’t like it, unless you try.”

“Rick. Get real.”

Carole has found a stash of bobby pins in her hip pocket and is at work repairing her ponytail. “How can you be so sure? I mean, so sure?”

“For God’s sake, any of us could name a zillion things we don’t like, without actually trying them. Give me a little credit.”

Carole gives up the fight with both Sara and her hair. “Jean, what about you? You game?”

I nod. I’m more nervous than I want to admit, but Carole is really sweet. No need to give her a hard time. I’m rolled up to the platform, and she helps me to my feet. I turn and sit down, and then Monty grabs my leg and lifts it over. No problem.

“Can you ride on your own?” I check my balance and nod yes.

The stable smells remind me of my grandfather’s farm. Monty mounts the other horse and leads my horse to the trail. I soon feel comfortable enough to reach out and take the reins from him. Slow and easy, the horse proceeds over the path. As an experiment, I pull back on the reins. The horse stops.

That’s power. Horse power.

A nudge from Monty makes my horse move forward. Beside me, Monty’s long slow stride matches my pace. His head and mine are bobbing along at the same level, more or less. It’s like we’re two walking people, a pair of walking friends, strolling side by side. If I need help, Monty’s here, but I’m not depending on him. I’m not depending on anyone. Well, except the horse, but to the horse I am master. That’s what the big animal believes and by believing makes it so.

Easily we pass across sand that would have swallowed my casters. We step over roots and bramble. My body takes up the gentle side-to-side wobble that makes up a gait. I haven’t felt that rhythm, haven’t moved with the rhythm of walking, since I was little enough to be carried in my parents’ arms.