Over the years, especially the last few, Robbie has felt like there’s no lonelier person than him, on horseback at what can feel like the ends of the Earth. But even though he sometimes hates this place and the unbreakable hold it seems to have on him, he desperately loves it, too. Especially in moments like this.

If he has to be trapped, at least he loves his cage.

Poco senses the horses before Robbie can see them. One moment, he’s ambling along with his head low and his neck outstretched, reaching for the few low branches that still have some stubborn-clinging yellow leaves, then bobbing his head and spitting them back out when they prove bitter to the taste. In the next moment, the gelding raises his head and quickens his steps, staring out amongst the trees with interest. He doesn’t break into a trot, but there’s a definite spring in his steps as he walks faster.

The horses range all over the property, hemmed in only by the perimeter fencing. Occasionally, they used to drift past the house and barns, though that hasn’t happened for a couple of years, not since the neighboring property to the west changed hands again and the new owner started keeping cattle in the meadow close to the property line. Apparently, the wild ones don’t like cattle. Robbie knows their habits like they’re a gang of teenaged troublemakers and he’s the beat cop in their neighborhood. Based on the time of year, the weather, and the time of day, nine times out of ten, he can find at least one of the bands in the first place he looks.

Today, he’s expecting them to be in the trees, anticipating the winter storm more keenly than any radiologist, and spread out into the four bands that have stayed more or less consistent since their first year here. They aren’t proper bands, Danny would be quick to remind him. They don’t behave like they would if they’d been left truly wild because the males are all geldings now and the mares aren’t busy minding foals. The closest thing they have to a juvenile are the few that were yearlings when they came, and they’re now seven years old.

Nonetheless, Robbie thinks of them as bands, the family units that wild horses naturally form. There’s Millie’s band, which is strictly female and consists of Millie and the other three oldest mares, the greys—Pewter, Silver, and Dot—and with them is Sage, Millie’s daughter, who was a yearling at her side when the horses were brought here that first summer.

Then there’s Kyle’s band, or “the bachelors” as Johnny affectionately refers to them. They’re the closest thing to friendly of all the horses, even though Robbie tries not to encourage them.

The third group is the wiliest, and sometimes weeks go by without Robbie getting a good look at them. He calls the sly black mare who heads up their ranks Bandit.

Finally, there’s Lucky’s band, the largest of the four bands at nearly two dozen strong, and they’re the ones that he and Poco have stumbled across, it seems. They don’t startle and run from the approaching horse and rider the way Bandit and her renegades would, or venture close to touch noses with Poco like the bachelors sometimes do. Lucky has one remaining eye after a close call during his first week on the ranch, which won him his name. He holds his head at an angle to get a good look at them. He’s a reddish palomino, with a coat the color of a burnished penny and a silvery-white forelock that falls over the blemished side of his face.