They’re already pushing toward the hay bales that are no longer protected by Robbie’s fence. Their snow-brushed coats are thick, their manes and tails long and wiry. Like most mustangs, they aren’t particularly large, and they have the rangy, hardy appearance of animals whose ancestors evolved to survive in rough country, not the show ring. Some people wouldn’t be impressed.

But some people look at them the way Robbie does. Those people can sense it—their wildness. Robbie doesn’t know how else to explain it. There’s an element of spirituality in the way he regards all horses, and he’s been around hundreds of them over the years. But there was always something different about the mustangs, since the moment they came off the BLM trailers that summer three years ago.

He’s not sure, but the look of focused calm on Lance’s face makes him think that Lance might see the horses as Robbie does, too. He swings back into Poco’s saddle, putting him at eye level with Lance, who looks at him with a smile. “Thanks for bringing me up here,” he says quietly.

Robbie nods, not bothering with words. The feeling inside him—between them—keeps building, like the river when it climbs toward the reservoir gates and threatens to crest the spillway. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold it back, or what will happen when it flows over. It’s frightening and it’s thrilling. His knee bumps Lance’s as he turns Poco back toward the trail.

At the third creek crossing, Poco crosses the frozen water in a bound, with no sound but the thud of his hooves striking packed snow. Dusty makes to follow, but when she lands at the edge of the ice instead of cleanly on the bank, the ice breaks under her hooves. It cracks with a sound like a gunshot, flushing a trio of crows out of the bushes by the bank. The birds and the sound make Poco hop around a few times, distracting Robbie. Dusty is a veteran, and it takes more to startle her, but she grunts when her next step brings her fully through the ice, and then she trips and pitches forward onto her knees.

Lance is slung sideways, out of the saddle and onto the snow-covered ice while Robbie watches helplessly. The snow is a cushion, at least, but beneath it, the ice has apparently broken up; as Dusty splashes to her feet, Lance is half-submerged in the freezing water.

“Lance!” Robbie is out of the saddle already, scrambling down the bank. The passage of two horses on the trail has left the snow packed enough to be slick, and he almost slips and ends up next to Lance in the water, but he rescues himself at the last second. By the time he’s at the edge of the creek, Lance is on his feet, too, his hat in one hand, catching Dusty’s trailing bridle rein in the other.

“I’m f-fine,” he tells Robbie, but he’s already trembling, and Robbie can see he’s wet to the bone over at least half of his body as he steps out of the water and onto the bank.