Writing the Ride: Candace Carrabus Rice, Author

I love my dogs, I really really do. Almost as much as I love my cats, and I really really REALLY love my cats. But this is about dogs. Being doggy. Sometimes, they are SO doggy. Like when Carlo, our black Lab puppy, goes out and eats everything he can find that smells and looks nasty. Like cat poop and dead frogs.

So, yesterday, just as Rianna’s bus was pulling in and I was taking Carlo out for his latest foraging adventure, this huge commotion erupted under our front deck. Dogs on the attack. Growling, yelping, snapping, and that deep-throated snarl that is impossible to misunderstand–the one that means something is about to be killed.

I knew Emily, our chocolate Lab/Pit Bull mix, was under there as well as Lucy, who is a long-haired Doxie/Tasmanian Devil mix. Really, we don’t know what Lucy is, but she’s quick and agile and has a certain edge about her that I like. Emily, of course, is big and powerful, and has no use for wild animals invading her territory. And rarely are any stupid enough to do so.

My first thought was that Lucy’s edge had somehow set Emily off. That they’d been playing and gotten carried away as dogs sometimes do, with fatal results. I ran to the deck and stomped on it yelling, “Emily, Lucy, NO!” to no avail. This deck is close to the ground and there’s no way I could see what was going on where they were. I yelled to Rianna to grab Carlo and the phone while I ran for a shovel, all the while fearing the worst.

I started digging, but the ground is hard and full of rocks, and there was no way I could get to them fast enough. Rianna was crying, I was crying and sweating and calling to the dogs. There was no sound of Lucy. Rianna fumbled the phone a couple of times, but reached our neighbor who came tearing down the road to help in any way she could. I’d forgotten she was watching her two young granddaughters, but they came along, no strangers to dogs and the trouble they can get into, especially in a rural area, like ours.

Rianna ran to watch the kids while my neighbor ran for the hose to try and break up the fight, but I had reached under the deck and put my hand on something dead, still warm, but limp and gone. It was too late. The ruckus had subsided to Emily’s heavy breathing, but still, I could see nothing. I kept digging and calling anyway.

I saw a tail. Too dark and bristly to be Lucy, but I wasn’t sure. I sent Rianna to the back yard to call for Lucy in case she was hiding from all this under one of the other decks. It never occurred to me they might have cornered a cat, but it wasn’t a cat’s tail either, and finally, I got hold of a foot, and it was definitely not a dog or cat foot. But Emily dragged the body back before I could see more, scraping her hard tooth over my finger as she did, cutting it open.

Finally, Lucy stuck her face where I could see it, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t about to play tug of war with Emily over whatever it was, but she eventually released it, and a fat muskrat slipped into my hands. The dogs crawled from underneath the way they’d gone in, excitedly out of breath, tails wagging, tongues hanging long. They wanted their catch, but I took it to a far field where the coyotes would deal with it later.

I felt bad for the muskrat, but its death was probably quick. I’ve seen Emily deal with possums, and she doesn’t waste time. If the creature was stupid or arrogant enough to think it could get away with living under our dog’s nose, then it needed to be removed from the gene pool.

I love my dogs, I really really do. Sometimes, I could wish for them to be a little less doggy, but I understand their essential nature, especially when they live in a place that presents them with such opportunities.

It was a long, long 20 minutes or however long the episode actually lasted. When it was over, I smelled like I’ve never smelled before. Between my own adrenaline and sweat, and that of the dogs, not to mention the muskrat, well, ’nuff said. I took a long bath.

But before I went inside, I found a few of our cats sleeping on the table and chairs of the back deck, completely unconcerned with this drama that did not involve them, dreaming, perhaps, of their own catches–birds and mice and the occasional snake.

Do you have dogs? What doggy things have they done? I’d love to hear your stories.

The cows.
Good friends of ours have an organic dairy farm. I get to drop by with a couple of gallon glass jugs just about whenever I want to buy raw organic milk straight from the tank–almost straight from the cow. We drink it, and use it in our cereal and coffee, and I make yogurt from it. Delicious!

When I stop in, Tim is always up to his neck in some kind of work, if he’s not milking, which takes 8 hours of every day. That’s 4 hours two times a day. He milks over 120 head.

The mixer.
Today, he was mixing timothy and alfalfa hay together. Organic hay, of course. He uses a Bobcat to lift big round bales into a giant Kitchenaid mixer. Okay, it’s not a Kitchenaid, but that’s sort of what it looks like. The mixer chops the stiff hay stems up and mixes the two together to balance the nutritive content. He says if he didn’t do this, the cows would eat only the alfalfa, and that wouldn’t be good for them. He knows a LOT about nutrition and hay and feed and fertilizer and chemicals, and can spout percentages of nitrogen, potassium, phosphorous, and calcium like I conjugate verbs.

They’ve been transitioning to organic for a few years. I asked him what the toughest part of the transition has been. He said feeding the herd. He had to start buying organic feeds — much more expensive than non-organic — but he had to still sell his milk at non-organic prices. And, you guessed it. Non-organic milk brings much lower prices than organic. Making ends meet for the last couple of years has been hard.

The hay mixer at work.
In retrospect, he said he should have sold his entire herd and bought cows that were already considered organic so that he could start selling at organic prices right away. The easy part was switching the pasture. All he had to do was start using organic fertilizer. He’s looking forward to the grass being high enough that he doesn’t have to mix hay every day. But then there will be other chores.

By the way, here’s a couple of interesting facts: milk is measured and sold by the pound. One cow produces 45-70 pounds of milk every day. Many of Tim’s cows are Jersey. Their milk has a higher cream content.

I can get more details about life on an organic dairy for anyone interested. Next time you pick up a half-gallon container of organic milk at the store, think of Tim and all those hours on his feet, reaching between the hind legs of his cows, disinfecting their bags, and attaching the milking machine to their teats.

Makes it taste even better, doesn’t it?

No, Spongebob isn’t dead, but a large portion of our TV channels went bye bye this week taking Nickelodeon and Spongebob and his gang right along with them.

Yes, like many Americans, we’re tightening our belts. And one place in the budget that was easy to cut was cable. We went down to the minimum available programming. DH gave up a number of news channels plus HBO, I lost Veria among others, and daughter lost SpongeBob. This is not a big sacrifice for what it saves us every month.

DH blurted the news to daughter at supper with no preamble, nothing to soften to blow. He simply didn’t think it would be that big a deal. But as soon as he said we’d see a big difference when we turned on the TV, her face clouded over and she said, “Spongebob?”

“He’s gone, baby,” I said. Just like I’d told her when my old horse died a few years ago. And how I’d said it when when one of our cats died. And when my mother died a year and half ago and more recently when my stepdad passed. And in the same week, right before Christmas, when her own little dog was killed. Yeah, the kid’s sustained some losses of late. We all have.

She started to cry. No, it was a wail. “Not Spongebob!” Dinner forgotten, the keening and gnashing of teeth went on.

“Well, maybe not, we don’t know for sure,” my husband backpeddled.

I knew for sure. But I comforted her as best I could. “I love Spongebob,” she cried over and over. While I went out to feed the horses, and daughter got ready to take a shower, DH snuck in to the computer and brought up Nick.com to see if they had Spongebob videos online.

The grieving continued through the showering and drying and getting on of PJs and brushing of teeth. Then, reasoning kicked in. “Can’t we just have Nickelodeon?” she pleaded. We attempted to explain the network “packages.” This did not satisfy her.

But by the time I’d returned from letting the horses out, she was sitting on her daddy’s lap at the computer, tears drying. There on the monitor was Spongebob’s latest episode.

Whew. Life can go on.

It was more grief then she’d showed for anyone or anything before. Perhaps an accumulation of it all. I couldn’t help wondering what it meant. I like Spongebob. I know people either hate him or love him. I see him as an optimistic, loyal, and cheerful character. He works hard and for the most part, lives in the moment. He makes mistakes and gets carried away sometimes, and says he’s sorry when he hurts someone else. A good example, if not exactly a role model. I like his family of choice, too. His goofy friend Patrick, who Spongebob never judges, his crabby neighbor and co-worker, Squidward, who Spongebob is determined to cheer up, and his sometimes insane boss, Mr. Crabs, for whom Spongebob would work for free because he loves his work so much.

Hey, who hasn’t had a goofy friend we loved in spite of their goofiness, or a crabby neighbor with a hidden heart of gold, or a sometimes insane boss who would die if we ever quit?

No wonder she loves the show.

I’m glad we’ve cut back on the channels we can watch. Sometimes too much choice is just too much choice. We will be better off watching less and facing each other more–talking and playing games, going outside to ride our bikes.

But I’m also glad she’ll be able to catch Spongebob Squarepants at her convenience on the computer, ’cause I’ll be watching, too.

Today’s ride was our trusty Ford 5000 tractor. It needed a jump from my car before it finally roared to life and belched a cloud of gray diesel fumes from its stack.

I needed to finish harrowing the horse pasture and wanted to get it done before the rain that was predicted. I love harrowing, actually, love just about anything that gets me on the tractor, whether it’s brush hogging, mowing, raking, and baling hay, or towing kids around in trailer full of sweet-smelling straw.

The horse pasture is special fun, though, because, well, the horses are there, and they always manage to position themselves right where I need to be, then suddenly take off at a gallop as I approach. As if they didn’t hear or see the tractor coming. But they grow bored with this game pretty quick, especially when there’s minty-green fresh spring grass to be had.

And then there’s the sense of satisfaction. I know not everyone can relate to the joy of seeing big piles of dried manure broken up and spread across the field in tiny pieces, but well, there you go. When you’re a farmer, even a part-timer, like me, you learn to appreciate the little things.

As you can see from the picture, our tractor is an old, no-frills model. Some days, like when its 90 degrees out and the sun is baking my head and my eyes sting from the sweat, I wish for an enclosed cab and AC. But most of the time, I like being out in the air, moving at a civilized pace, my ear protectors firmly in place to drown out the worst of the noise.

It is time to think, or to drift, and create new stories.

Unexpected Twist: Fiction Reading Is Up
Survey Shows Reversal Of Longstanding Trend

By Bob Thompson
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, January 12, 2009; Page C01

There’s good news about reading, says the National Endowment for the Arts in a report the agency is releasing today.

For the first time since the NEA began surveying American reading habits in 1982 — and less than five years after it issued its famously gloomy “Reading at Risk” report — the percentage of American adults who report reading “novels, short stories, poems or plays” has risen instead of declining: from 46.7 percent in 2002 to 50.2 percent in 2008.

“Reading on the Rise: A New Chapter in American Literacy” is the triumphant headline on the new report. In a preface, outgoing NEA Chairman Dana Gioia called it a “turning point in recent American cultural history” and emphasized that “the most significant growth has been among young adults,” the group previously showing the biggest reading declines.

Yet the survey contains bad news as well.

The percentage of American adults who report reading any book not required for work or school during the previous year is still declining. It fell from 56.6 percent in 2002 to 54.3 percent in 2008.

Meanwhile, no one can say why the number of Americans reporting what the NEA calls “literary reading” rose — though Gioia didn’t hesitate to suggest an explanation.

“Over the past six years there has been a new sense of urgency in the United States about the cultural disaster represented by the decline in reading,” he said in an interview last week. As a result, “millions of teachers, librarians, parents,” politicians and others put their energies into reversing the trend.

Gioia said he likes to think that the NEA’s surveys “played a catalytic role” and that NEA programs such as the Big Read — through which the agency encourages American communities to sponsor the reading and discussion of a single book — have been important.

What are concerned reading advocates, accustomed to hearing that the literary sky is falling, to make of this news?

Fielding questions in the chairman’s office in the Old Post Office Pavilion, Gioia and NEA Research Director Sunil Iyengar tried to clear up any possible confusion.

When considering the category in which the turnaround occurred, it’s important to know that “literary” isn’t meant to imply “highbrow.” The NEA survey includes all fiction genres, including thrillers and romance novels. Mysteries emerged this year as the most popular genre.

It’s also notable that the gain came entirely from prose fiction. The percentage of adults reading drama and poetry declined during the period studied.

But what about prose nonfiction? Why did the NEA decide to single out the “literary” category in the first place?

“Because we’re the National Endowment for the Arts,” Gioia said. When the agency did its first survey, in 1982, it excluded nonfiction from consideration, and that’s the long-term database it has to work with. Questions about overall book reading were added later, but the data don’t go back as far.

This is understandable, but the result is confusing. It means, for example, that reading Barack Obama’s “Dreams From My Father” won’t get you counted as a “literary reader” by the NEA.

The confusion is only made worse by the decline the NEA found — but chose not to emphasize — in the percentage of adults reading any book.

Why wasn’t that the headline?

“We’re not interested in the format of this, we’re just interested in the activity,” Gioia said. But it’s true that “the literary reading seems to be going up, and the general reading seems to be going down.”

The rise in literary reading, Iyengar pointed out, was the first really significant positive trend the NEA had seen in five surveys done over 26 years. The spike was “aberrational to us,” he said. “We were like, ‘What’s going on with this?’ ”

One possibility is implied by Gioia’s point about format. Could an increase in online reading — or in the reporting of online reading by survey respondents — be a factor? After all, the new survey asked specifically about Internet reading for the first time, and nearly 15 percent of adults said they read literature online.
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It’s not a question the NEA numbers can really answer, Iyengar said. But he pointed out that the overall reading question was asked early in the survey (as it always has been) and thus the later query about online reading would not have influenced responses.

The spike in reading in the 18-24 age range being so high — it accounted for nearly 40 percent of the overall growth in reported literary reading — raises another question: Was the “Harry Potter” phenomenon a major factor? The final volume of J.K. Rowling’s series came out early in the 12 months covered by the survey, and in the years since the first “Harry” arrived, the young-adult sector has become one of publishing’s main growth areas.

Maybe. But Gioia pointed out that Potter books were in stores when the NEA’s literary reading rates were still tanking. He was happy, however, to spread around credit for the fiction-reading uptick.

“It’s ‘Harry Potter’ and ‘Twilight’ and Oprah and the Big Read and the Internet,” he said — though he’s not planning to declare victory as he returns to the private sector later this month.

“We’ve turned around a war that we were losing,” Gioia said. “But victory is a long way off.”

Writers, if you haven’t checked out www.fieldreport.com, then you are missing something. This online writing experiment is fascinating, providing a chance for your stories to be read, reviewed, and rated by real readers, not some poor editor trying to please a greedy publisher. And if the real readers rate your story high enough, you can win real money.

For instance, my story, “A Farmer at Last,” was the highest-scoring in the Home+Garden+Auto category for the most recent review period ending October 1st, and I won $1,000. And that makes my story eligible to compete for the $250,000.00 grand prize which will be awarded at the end of the year.

And if that doesn’t qualify as real money in your book . . .

www.fieldreport.com/contests

As if.

When I do have a spare moment, I run outside and take pictures. Living on a farm offers plenty of opportunities to enjoy nature. I hope you enjoy our little slice of heaven by viewing some of my photos from around the farm.

Spirals:

Light:

Bugs and Petals

Critters

What the heck do riding and writing have in common? For one thing, a peculiar stab at alliteration. But other than that, how could sitting on a chair at a desk and staring at a blank page be like sitting astride a live horse surrounded by soaring scenery? At first glance, you might answer, nothing. These two activities could not be farther apart. One requires movement and strength, the other stillness and thought. But anyone who has pursued both will understand. There is a secret contained in the essence of these disparate vocations that joins them in my heart.

Nothing has ever drawn and held me like horses. Nothing, that is, except writing. With horses, whether riding or grooming, or even mucking stalls, I am both lost and found, consumed and set free. Their scent and sentiency is so alluring as to be addictive. So it is with writing. The characters begin to live, breathe, think. Their world and stories emerge from my imagination onto the page, and I am one with them, wherever they are.

Not only that, but it is in the rhythm of the horse where I find myself conceiving new stories and ideas. I am standing on my horse’s left side with my right hand slipped into a curry comb and the other grasping a stiff brush. Curry comb first in circular motions against the lay of the coat to loosen dried mud and sweat. One, two three circles. The brush follows in long strokes down the flat muscles of his neck. One, two, three strokes. Move to his shoulder, repeat. Move down to his side, repeat.

I can do this in my sleep. My horse is leaning into the rhythm now. He knows it well. I have been grooming horses like this for well over thirty years; my body knows it well too. Muscles have memory, my friend the physical therapist says. I do not have to think, I have only to allow and to follow. So I do not think, I simply do, and my mind is free to wander where it will. How will my protagonist get out of her latest scrape? I can see her figuring it out. My mind can follow her and take notes while my body and heart are with my horse.

My family knows better than to speak to me when I am working with a horse or working on writing—which, as you can see, I frequently do simultaneously. I will not hear or answer their call, for I am somewhere else and can remain in that somewhere else a long time.

Yet, occasionally I go to great lengths to put off or avoid both riding and writing. Some days, anything would be better than mucking another stall or starting another chapter.

For to begin—riding or writing—is to keep going, to the profound neglect of everything else. But to submerge myself is bliss. On a good day, my horse glides beneath me as if we were one. My fingers slide across the keyboard as if divinely inspired. On a bad day, I wonder who that was, that woman who was in the flow. So, sometimes, instead of riding, I peruse catalogs of equine equipment until I have no time left to ride, or immerse myself in the minutiae of the writing business until I have no time left to write.

This is the shared secret of my two passions: Both are meditation and movement. Both are time well spent while both take time away from everything else.

Now, I must hurry—because I’ve been writing, and it’s time to go riding.

Just as Lauren hoped, they had arrived at low tide. Firm, smooth sand stretched for fifty yards before plunging beneath a middling surf. Unmarred by tracks of any kind, the beach begged to be run across, particularly by a horse, in Lauren’s mind, but she would not force one down the cliff.

From where they stood, the sheer bluff continued in each direction as far as she could see. At the base, the steady churn of water had eroded enough rock to form shallow caves. Fighting a strong desire to strip down and make for the waves, Lauren stayed where she knew her companions felt safe–as far from the water as possible. She sucked in deep droughts of the brine-tinged air.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?”

“Reeks of death to me,” Leinos commented.

He appeared calm–wore what she called his Fin face–the one reserved for the public, but beneath that? The tightness in his jaw belied the otherwise calm guise. She hadn’t considered just how severe his reaction to being even this close to the water might be. “Let’s go back,” she said. Listening to the surf’s rote would have to satisfy her.

Before they could turn, Lauren heard her name called from above. Malew danced at the cliff’s edge, spinning, his golden hair bending like wheat awaiting harvest.

“Get back,” she yelled. He didn’t heed. To Leinos, she said, “I keep forgetting he’s only eight years old. He usually acts so much older.”

A shadow overhead made Lauren cringe as visions of yekerk sent panicked thoughts through her brain. Her most recent encounter with the monstrous winged creatures was still fresh, and the old wounds on her legs, left by a yekerk’s deadly claws, refused to fully heal.

When she returned her gaze to the cliff’s edge, Malew had gone. She scanned the precipice, then whipped her head around when she heard him screaming. One of the huge birds struggled to gain height as it flew toward the sea with Malew hanging from its talons.

“Shit.”

Leinos stared wide-eyed at the sight.

“Do something,” she urged.

The bird skimmed the surf edge keeping tight hold of its squirming catch. Leinos didn’t move. She shook his arm as dread spit through her. “Shoot it.”

“Malew is with the dead. It is too late.”

“Shoot it,” she repeated then sprinted away. The bird made steady, unhurried progress not far above the surface.

Leinos ran after her. His voice, when he yelled, sounded strangled. “Don’t go in the water.”

She skidded short of a receding wave, and when he flanked her, snatched the small crossbow from his belt, took a shot, missed.

Leinos wrestled the weapon from her.

“For God’s sake,” she pleaded. “Do something.”

He placed a bolt and took careful aim. “I will shoot it, but he will drown. He is with the dead.” With deep sadness, he added, “I am sorry.”

The arrow sung and found its mark. Forty yards out, the bird lurched, lolled to one side, dropped the boy, and both hit with a clumsy splash. Lauren didn’t wait.

She kicked hard into the surf, knowing she had little time. Frigid water numbed her skin. Struggling past the curl of breakers, she treaded a moment, then swam to where Malew had landed. The bird’s tail twitched and blood spread around it. Lauren dove. She caught sight of the boy, reached, and grabbed only more water.

The fading sun provided no help, and below, the sea grew murky. Something bumped her shoulder. Spinning about, Lauren saw nothing. With heart pounding, she surfaced, gulped air, and swam straight down, where visibility was nil.

C’mon, she thought, he can’t have sunk this fast. There. A milky face swirled past. Lauren recoiled. It was not Malew. Then another figure slithered a cold hand around one ankle and jerked. Lauren kicked it away, but realized what she thought was seaweed or the eddies of some tiny sea creature, was something else entirely. She forced herself to keep going. A little farther, and a glimmer of Malew’s yellow locks drew her even deeper. More translucent swimmers emerged from the depths, surrounding her. One tugged at the boy, another cradled his head, almost in a caress.

The dead.

Not sure she believed her eyes, Lauren pushed through them. Air bubbles escaped Malew’s nose. It was not too late. The passing faces of the dead were sad, their bodies gaunt. She could feel their bleak hunger. They wanted Malew to join them.

Lauren mouthed, “No,” as she pulled her knife. “You can’t have him.”

She swept the blade through the torso of the nearest, and like mist on a cool morning, it dissipated, then just as quickly coalesced. Before her lungs gave out, and without care for the consequences, Lauren snatched Malew from the two who held him. They scrambled to hold on, but their incorporeal grips could not hold, and the effort scattered their forms like vapor from an aerosol can. She made another swipe at the swimmers as she kicked for the surface. They followed and scrabbled for her, white arms too long, mouths open in perpetual screams. Their hands had no strength, and she hauled the boy toward light.

As quickly as she could, Lauren floated him along the swells to where she could touch bottom, then carried him the rest of the way, stumbling through the undertow. The others stayed back as she laid the boy down. Even Leinos did not approach.

Lauren pinched Malew’s nose and breathed into his mouth. “Stay with me, sweetie.” She forced air into his lungs again. He did not respond. Lauren continued to breathe for the boy, and after a few more attempts, he coughed and spat up water, eyelids fluttered open. She wiped at her tears.

“Horsecaller?” he asked.

She hugged him to her, started to ask someone to bring a blanket.

A pair of bare feet appeared at Malew’s side. Leinos crouched but did not touch either of them. “You swam with the dead,” he said, his tone flat.

Leinos and Vraz regarded her and Malew with pinched brows and evasive eyes, the concern there far beyond that for someone who had merely almost drowned.

Then, she felt it, like a brimful of icy rain tipped down her neck. Something, or someone, clung to her, and it wasn’t seaweed. She glanced at the boy’s face. A pallid shadow oozed around him.

The dead were still with them.

From the prophecy by the Zarc seer—

The ground will not shake from pounding hooves,
nor the wind carry a proud whinny,
nor warriors smell sweet horse breath
for one hundred and one courses.
But before the horses leave forever,
a new Horsecaller will come
along dark, unused paths.

~~~~~~~~~~
Prologue

Upstate New York

The horse rolled beneath her with great waves of energy, carrying her forward to—it didn’t matter where. The trail was clear, the autumn morning crisp.

At the top of a small rise, she steadied him, then continued down a gentle hill, gaining speed as weight and gravity conspired to meet them at the bottom. She lifted her shoulders, stretching deeper into the heels of her tall, black boots, then tightened a gloved finger on one rein to soften his jaw. The horse had begun to lean on the bit, but shifted his weight from straining shoulders and pounding forelegs to gathering haunches and reaching hind legs, and rider and mount melded together as one.

The landscape curved up, and the horse galloped, his quick breaths matching her own. Ahead, the trail crested; beyond that, nothing.

Lauren knew what lay ahead—a five-foot drop over a rock outcrop to a soft meadow. Before that, they would veer right down a narrow trail, jump a low coop, and continue. Pindar was not yet ready to leap down the rock drop.

Sense and instinct made her sink closer to the saddle. His mane flicked her nose, his musky smell singed her nostrils. She enjoyed the prickly edge between danger and freedom that is a good gallop, ignoring the knowledge that soon, rides like this would be rare.

Her chest tightened when she remembered the doctor’s words that morning. Only a miracle would save Morgan. Her sister would be lucky to survive two weeks past delivering the baby.

Miracles. She spat the useless word out of her thoughts and narrowed her field of vision to the upcoming turn, then jammed her helmet lower and shortened the reins, closer to his mouth, closer to control. Heavy rain the night before left a bright sheen over the world. Red and yellow leaves blazed in sharp relief against gray tree trunks. Concentration squeezed out all but the feel of his long stride and the distance to the take-off point. She had made this approach a dozen times—knew the footing by heart, knew the perfect speed to approach.

Lowering her right hand half an inch was all it should have taken to tell the horse to veer right down the easier path. Lately, she barely had to think, and he responded. This keen-edged communication between her and her mount was exactly what she had been searching for all her life.

He ignored her cue and surged straight ahead.

An instructor once told her to be an opportunistic rider, to accept what a horse offers and ride it forward.

The rock drop it is.

They pounded to the edge. She enjoyed the moment when it appeared they were jumping into nothingness. This moment did not pass unnoticed by Pindar, who snapped an ear back. He was bold, but she knew he wouldn’t jump into thin air without her full attention. She tightened her calves in quick response.

Yes, we’re going. Now.