He takes Poco into what they’ve always called the saddle barn. It’s a small building originally built as a corn crib, but Robbie’s grandfather converted it for use for horses. It has two old wooden stalls that now contain scrap lumber and the riding and push mowers, but Robbie still uses the ties and tack room.

The five barn cats saunter out after Robbie has the horse tied, all of them stretching and rubbing against his legs. He staggers to avoid stepping on them, spreading some cat food from a bin into their tin bowls before he retrieves Poco’s blanket, saddle, and bridle. While Robbie settles the saddle blanket over his withers, Poco stares out at the piling snow with his ears forward, like he can’t wait to get back out into it.

“Like I said, he’s a workaholic,” Robbie tells one of the cats—an orange and white female called Lemon who never eats until the other cats have cleared away from the dishes. Lemon yawns and meows, and Robbie can’t help pausing to scratch down her back. Sometimes he feels self-conscious, talking to his animals like they’re people, but then he remembers no one is around to notice.

When Poco is saddled, Robbie slips off his halter to bridle him, then mounts in the barn aisle, ducking his head as he rides out so that he doesn’t hit the beam over the doorway.

Poco can be hard to handle at the beginning of a ride, so Robbie just gives him his head and lets him spring straight into a canter, barely having to guide him toward the north trail. There’s a break in the trees just on the edge of the farmyard, which Robbie maintains with a chainsaw and brush mower once every couple of years. It quickly narrows as it dives toward the first of several creek crossings.

From there, the path is just a horse trail, wide enough at times to ride two abreast, but mostly forcing a nose-to-tail orientation. It’s winding and sloping and snow-spattered, but Poco knows every inch even better than Robbie does, and he navigates it at high speed without a stumble or hesitant step.

It’s still reckless, letting Poco charge through the bends and leap the creeks instead of navigating at a conservative walk or trot. Robbie should probably be more careful. If he fell and hurt himself out here, no one would know.

Still, he ignores the fleeting thought and grins as Poco bounds over the fourth creek crossing, then surges up the steep embankment on the other side. Robbie grasps the saddle horn to help hold himself over the horse’s shoulders, his center of gravity, with his other hand resting on his hat so that he doesn’t lose it.

When Poco crests the incline, he slows of his own volition and Robbie gives his neck a pat. Residual adrenaline keeps his heart pounding even at the slower pace. There’s no sound except their combined breaths—horse and rider, briefly one—and the whisper of snow settling on the dense branches overhead.