“Hey, handsome,” Robbie calls softly, nudging Poco onward with his calves while his eyes skate over the horses visible through the trees, their group standing close together, chins resting on one another’s snow-damp backs. When he has a good count, and sees that they’re all bright-eyed and seem to be in one piece, he starts scanning the trees for the next band.

He sees Millie’s band next. Or, at least, he gets a quick glimpse of Sage. The other mares must be tucked down along the creek bank where the wind can’t reach them, but Sage’s dark head pops up above the brush that hedges the embankment, standing out against the snowfall. He rides Poco in that direction, ducking the grasping tree branches that glance off the waterproofed canvas and leather of his duster, but snag on his jeans and Poco’s mane and tail. When he’s close enough to peer over the edge, the mares have already moved downstream. They’re drifting away—except for Millie, who stands facing Poco and him like she’s guarding their retreat. Robbie gives her a respectful little nod, and she chooses that moment to pivot and charge after the others, her hooves crunching in the shallow ice.

Robbie guides Poco back to the trail and they follow it along as it continues to weave north. Predictably, Bandit is nowhere in sight, but Robbie does hear crashing brush and hoofbeats further up the trail. He assumes Bandit heard them coming and scattered her band somewhere out of his line of vision. Poco jerks his head in the direction of the noise and lets out a long, rumbling snort that vibrates in his whole body and makes Robbie grin, cautiously.

“Easy, son. Now’s not the time to rediscover your wild side.” It takes a certain kind of horse to be the only domesticated one in sight or smelling distance and not cotton on to the wild ones’ energy. He reaches behind the saddle and gives Poco’s rump a gentle pat. Poco snorts again, then puts his head forward and trudges on, back to business.

The path forks out, breaking into a few narrow trails that the wild ones have cut, and the broader, main trail opens into the hay meadow. That summer, Robbie had swathed and baled the grass on these fifteen gently sloping, relatively clear acres, then rowed up the tightly rolled bales and put a few strands of electric wire around the perimeter to keep the horses out of them. This way, he can feed them without getting a tractor up here or forcing them into corrals by the house for the winter. They’re only halfway through the available bales. Kyle’s band is gathered around the mound of dried grass, eating contentedly, when Robbie and Poco break out of the trees.

Kyle is a dark bay, and he looks nearly all black in his full winter coat. He calls out a sharp whinny to Poco in greeting. Poco answers, which Robbie should probably discipline him for, but Robbie and Poco don’t really have that kind of relationship, so he lets it slide. He’s been riding Poco almost every day for the past ten years, and if the horse hasn’t decided to rebel, unload Robbie, and join the wild ones in their wild ways yet, he probably won’t start now.