Grace vaulted over the paddock fence. She grabbed the reins of the biggest horse — a chestnut with a white-blazed face. He snorted and tossed his head. She tumbled backward into a soft pile of hay.
Biscuit watched her from the fence. His tail swished once. Twice. As if to say: what just happened?
Every morning, Grace walked into the paddock. She led Biscuit along the rail and clicked her tongue until his ears perked up to her voice. Her boots were scuffed from all the fence climbing.
"One, two, three — almost there," she whispered after every tumble. She counted her tries out loud and kept coming back.
On the fourth morning, Grace climbed onto the fence. She slid her leg over and settled her bottom on Biscuit's back. His ears swiveled backward.
He didn't buck. He let out a loud, ridiculous sneeze. Grace laughed so hard she nearly slipped sideways. "Don't you dare," she gasped, holding on tight.
Grace tightened her grip on the reins. She pointed Biscuit toward the long dirt path and jumped off the fence in one swift move. He trotted forward — steady, sure.
Biscuit grew faster with every stride. The wind rushed past her cheeks. The fence posts blurred into streaks of brown and green. Her laughter rang out across the farm.
She leaned into his neck. The farm fell away behind her — the barn, the paddocks, the garden — all painted in warm afternoon gold.
At the end of the path, Biscuit slowed to a walk. He nudged Grace's shoulder with his velvet nose. She rested her forehead against his mane, breathless and grinning.
From the gate, the other horses whickered. Biscuit answered with a proud, rumbling nick. Grace opened her eyes and looked at him. He looked back.
The golden evening light wrapped around them both. Grace smiled. Biscuit blinked slowly. And the farm went quiet, just for a moment, as if the whole world was keeping watch.