Danny pats him on the back, his little face solemn. “It’s okay if you forget the rules sometimes. I remember. I can tell you.”

Robbie, still laughing, grabs Danny around the waist and picks him up, upside down, until he’s giggling.

“Don’t be so serious,” Robbie says, mock-sternly, and kisses him. “That’s my job.”

Danny’s little arms go around his neck, and Johnny rides the horse, and the sunlight comes down. Their dad always loved the fall. Robbie remembers how he pointed out all of the colors to Robbie when Robbie was about Danny’s size. So, he puts Danny on his hip and they call out the shades of gold and auburn and russet together.

Even those moments are still backlit by enormous grief. But all of the people who made that same promise to Robbie were right, after all—it’s suddenly just a little bit easier.

Today.

When you need to make up your mind about something, go for a long ride.

Another piece of advice that Robbie hears in his head, in his father’s voice, just as it sounded more than twenty years ago. Like all the rest, this bit of his dad’s wisdom has always held true.

He goes to the gate, but for once, Poco isn’t waiting for him. He’s deep in a mutual grooming session with one of Johnny’s bays, his head twisted around so that he can nibble delicately at the sensitive skin of the other gelding’s flank. The other bay looks on, a hind leg cocked, dozing despite the brisk wind that combs through his dense coat. The snow is trampled down to grey slush in their pen.

Robbie hears the whisper and crunch of hooves dragging through the snow, and looks askance to find Dusty approaching him. She meets his gaze with calm willingness, and he feels a rush of gratitude as he steps up to her and slips the halter meant for Poco onto her head instead. It seems fitting to ponder these strange, yet somehow inevitable circumstances he finds himself in on the back of his oldest living friend.

He remembers Dusty from when she was a foal, sunshine-yellow and full of energy at the side of her dam, a horse his father had bred and raised himself. He remembers the first few rides his father put on her. Robbie watched every second of those sessions, dangling from the round pen fence with his arms hooked over the top rail, fascinated. He remembers the day from a couple years later when his father suggested, “Why don’t you ride Dusty today?” and how his grin felt like it took up his whole face, but was nothing compared to the radiance of his dad’s warm, answering smile.

In the barn, Robbie snaps a loose crosstie to either side of Dusty’s halter. She seems no worse for the wear after her dip in the icy creek, but Robbie gives each of her legs a careful once-over, just to be sure. Then, he runs his hands firmly down her back and shoulders, looking for soreness. She doesn’t stir, except to stretch her head down as far as the ties will allow and inspect one of the barn cats who’s rolling enthusiastically in the bits of straw scattering the barn aisle.