Page 70 of One Last Rodeo

She hums to herself quietly. “Do you think he ever misses riding?”

“Sometimes, maybe. But I think Lo and coaching has filled up the part of him that the circuit used to fill. Different kind of adrenaline." I look at her. "He's the reason I ride the way I do. Taught me that the animal isn't the enemy. That the point isn't to win against the bull, it's to find the rhythm. Match it. Move with it instead of against it."

She drops her hand from Maggie’s head. "You love it here. I can tell."

"More than anywhere," I say honestly. "Except maybe grandma's cabin or the lake."

Catalina smiles. It's the real one she’s been wearing since arriving.

"Alright, Kitty." I lead Maggie to the mounting block just outside the barn door. "Your turn."

She looks at the horse. Then at me. Then at the horse again. "I've never done this."

"I know."

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure I can.”

"Maggie has never thrown anyone in her life and she’s not starting today." I hold out my hand. "I'll be right here the whole time. Unless you really don’t want to?"

She looks at my hand for a second. Then she takes it.

“No. Let’s do this.”

Getting Catalina onto a horse is one of the funniest and most endearing things I have ever witnessed in my life, and I have watched Micah try to make pancakes from scratch at two in the morning drunk, my grandma dance salsa at eighty, and newborn foals learn how to walk.

She mounts with more determination than grace, throws her right leg over with complete conviction, and then grabs the saddle horn like it’s a tool. Maggie, my good girl, doesn't flinch.

"Okay," Catalina says, from up in the saddle, looking down at me with wide eyes. "Okay. I'm up."

"You're up."

"This is very high."

"You're about five feet off the ground, Kitty."

She adjusts her grip on the reins; the ones I showed her how to hold three times inside the barn. "Now what?"

"Now you let her walk. Gentle pressure with your heels. Don't kick, just press."

She presses. Maggie walks. Catalina goes rigid from her hips to her shoulders like she's bracing to be shook off by a bull.

"Relax," I say, walking alongside them.

"I am relaxed."

"You look like you're about to perform emergency surgery on the horse while riding it."

"This is how I look when I'm relaxed."

I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don't laugh. "Drop your shoulders. Let your hips move with her. Try to match her rhythm."

Slowly, I watch Catalina's shoulders drop half an inch. Then another. And then something shifts in the way she's sitting just a little. It’s not obvious, she still looks too stiff, but her hips start to follow the movement instead of fighting it and her grip on the reins eases just slightly.

"There," I say quietly. "That's it. You’re doing well."

She doesn't answer. But she's not bracing anymore. We go like that for a while—Maggie plodding contentedly along the fence line, me walking alongside with one hand loose near the bridle, Catalina gradually unclenching degree by degree in the saddle. The afternoon light has gone golden and low across the property, lighting up the grass and the red of the barn.

I'm not looking at any of it. I'm looking at her.