horses

Want to know a secret?""Yeah!" His smile grew big and broad."I don't know how to saddle a horse either. And I've never even ridden on one before." His eyes grew wide as the moon. "Jase!" he bellowed, spinning toward his brother."She's never ridden a horse before!" Well, there went my secret.

Any real, beautiful thing in this world shouldn't be tamed or claimed or broken. It should be allowed to be, worked with, not against, appreciated. Don't be afraid of the wild she has left. It makes her special." - Cowboy McKennon Kelly to Cowgirl in Training Devon Brooke.

Could I be jealous of the way he was touching my horse? Yep ... I was.

She'll never be all the way tame, just the way she's made ... sorta like you, I imagine.

With my heart thumping, I froze up. I didn't dance. I was born with two left feet and they only worked together in the saddle. "Come on," Casey urged and grabbed my hand. "I wore my steel-toe boots. You can stand on my feet for all I care.

Lucky for me, all four of his hooves missed my body as they found the ground. I picked my head up, thankful I didn't get stomped, and watched the steer run off along the fence. Mental note: cows are not like horses. Don't let the big brown eyes fool you.

There the black horse stood - his feet planted firm on the ground, afraid to move. His coat was covered in sweat and a stark white rim lined his eyes. All three of us gawked at his sudden silence. The rattling metal gate was now the only sound.

Three years? That's a thousand tomorrows, ma'am.

He was thirty-six years old, and six foot three. He spoke English to people and French to cats, and Latin to the birds. He had once nearly killed himself trying to read and ride a horse at the same time.

Everything changes except human behavior and its consequences.

Yeah, well. Don__ be that guy, Brady. Don__ be the guy who loves his horse too much.

That was the beauty of Family, Dakota decided, you knew what it took to make them bleed. The magic was in choosing not too.

Nothing is permanent, I tell myself over and over. Especially not a horse.

Vacations in my family are rare events squeezed between races. I can count them on one hand, and even those amount to only a few hours each. Shopping in Los Angeles. Sinking my toes into snow white sand in Florida. They are tiny slips of memory strung around horses.

When the striped pole slips by I slide low in the saddle and give Kali room to go. One moment she's bottled up, and the next she's a stream of copper, her chestnut mane smacking me hard in the face while her strides lengthen and everything becomes a droning rumble of hooves and wind.

No matter what, my chest always tightens up before a race. A rush of adrenaline spikes all the way down my spine, and it's like I'm right there. Right on top of Kali, squeezed in that metal stall, looking out at the dirt with my heart in my throat. The starter opens the gates, and the bell rings.

Kali has a habit of doing these beautiful works that never translate during the races in the afternoon. They call animals like her morning glories, or horrendous bets. Take your pick.

I'm bouncing up and down next to Beck, and his arm is around my waist because it's second nature to reach out and grab something during a race. To grab it and hold on, or shake it, or just feel that it's there and you can steady yourself against it to bring yourself back to earth when the race is done.