“Alright. That’s not so bad,” I say, patting her cheek.

She’s still not exactly comfortable with me. But she’s calmed down a bit.

I hold the bridle close to her face so she can see and smell the rope. She shies away again, and I wait patiently until she’s accustomed to the pale-blue rope, and the texture against her cheek.

After a long while, I slip it over her head.

She doesn’t like that one bit. She tries to rear up, whinnying, but I gently hold her down, patting her head, rubbing her neck, and speaking softly to her.

Grady comes back out of the house, having gotten a drink and probably some food, too.

“How’s it goin’?” he says.

Just from the sound of his voice, Star rears up again and yanks at the bridle, trying to pull away from me.

“Just stay back over there,” I say to Grady, though using my softest tone so it doesn’t startle Star. “You’re ugly, and you’re scaring her.”

“I’ve heard that too many times,” Grady says, grinning. He stays back, though, out of sight of Star.

I start resting my hand on the horse’s back. Just getting her used to weight and pressure.

She’s never had a rider on her back, not for a second. She’s never carried anything, not even a saddle.

Eventually I start pressing a little harder on her back. Letting her feel a small amount of weight.

She keeps circling round me, held in place by my hand on her bridle. I start to lean on her back, and even pull myself up for a second or two. She startles and skitters away the first couple of times I do it, but eventually the pauses between feeling my weight against her back and her jerking away become longer and more spread out.

I like to break horses bareback, without a saddle. They hate the feeling of the saddle when they’re not used to it. It’s more tolerable to them to feel a person alone, at least to start with.

It’s better for me, too. I can feel the horse’s heartbeat thundering, feel how overheated it’s getting.

So when I finally pull myself all the way up onto Star’s back, I do it with just the bridle and rope, nothing else. No bit in her mouth. Trying to make it as pleasant as possible.

Still, she bolts and starts running. She’s trying to throw me off, though she’s not quite enraged enough to buck or roll. She thinks she can sprint away from me, if she runs fast enough.

I’m not trying to hold her back. Actually, it’s the opposite—I lean low across her neck and I whisper in her ear, urging her on faster and faster.

We gallop around and around the pen. When she starts to slacken her pace, I squeeze my knees against her thighs and urge her to run harder. She’s galloping full out, running faster than she probably ever has before. She was loose on the Foster’s land, galloping around wherever she pleased. But she had no predators, nothing chasing her. She’s never run flat out, with all her might.