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I can’t hear everything he’s saying to the skittish horse, but it’s obviously only meant for his ears. If I thought Porter was good with horses eleven years ago, he’s way better now. It’s purely instinctual for him, and it’s hard to look away.
“I’m not sure if you’ve been given a name, but I’m gonna call you Storm.” He takes a couple of soft steps toward the horse, who allows it. “Because you’re wild and unpredictable, but also breathtaking, and deep down, wounded. Aren’t you, boy? So wounded you want to lash out. Push everyone away. Rage like that storm inside you.”
I rub at that stitch in my chest because it’s throbbing now.
“I like that name,” Pixie whispers to me.
I swallow the boulder in my throat. “Me too.”
Porter begins swinging the rope behind him in a slow arc as he pads lightly in front of the horse, reminiscent of a matador and bull. It seems to go on forever, and when he finally lifts the lead, it’s so fast and smooth that the stallion is taken by surprise. Before he can retreat, Porter gets it around his neck. He bucks at first, running to and fro, trying to shake him, but Porter keeps up and follows his lead, turning up a dust storm as they go.
When the stallion eventually comes to a standstill, his ears are back, his tail swishing wildly. He doesn’t like the rope, but as if knowing it’s no use, he relents.
The groom in the pen with him straightens, total awe in his expression.
Pixie knows better than to whoop and holler with a skittish horse around, so she clamps a hand over her mouth and wiggles in excitement.
Porter’s cooing-clicking cadence seems to relax the horse further as he approaches him from the side. The idea is to get a halter on him, but Porter wouldn’t dare attempt it now. He knows better. This is a multistep process, and when he tries again on another day, the stallion might be even more resistant. He might need to rope his front hoof and bring him to heel, getting him to lie down in the dirt, which is considered submissive.
For now, Porter just stands there with the horse, the end of the rope hanging as loosely in Porter’s fist as it is around the horse’s neck. Not bad for the first go-round. But I have a feeling this mustang will give him a run for his money. Porter might’ve caught him by surprise this time, but the horse will see him coming next. We all remember mustangs who could never be tamed, but I’m hoping for the best with this one.
Porter stretches his fingertips toward the horse, then leaves them suspended. The stallion’s tail grows still now, which is normally a sign of fear. In response, Porter relaxes his stance further as if to comfort the horse and tell him he’s no threat.
The next couple of minutes feel like an eternity, and then the horse steps forward, close enough to allow Porter’s fingers to graze his muzzle. Likely the horse is curious more than anything.
Curiosity satisfied, Storm snorts, stomps his hoof, then backs away.
But not far enough to pull on the rope.
“Holy cow, that was something to watch,” Dad says from behind me.
I was so intent on watching Porter, I was oblivious to anything else around me.
“Right?” I reply, my gaze never leaving Porter. “I’d heard, but to see it in action…”
Dad joins me against the holding pen. When Porter glances at me and Pixie with a cocky smile, it falters for a brief moment upon seeing my father.
“I wanted to talk to you about Porter working with the horses,” I tell Dad. “Not full-time. That’s not what he was hired for, and obviously, he’s good with the cattle as well.”
He’s good at everything and would probably run this ranch better than me.
I push that thought away, but nerves kick up in my stomach as I wonder what my father would think of the idea. As if we’re those kids again.
“Would never want to hold anyone back from their passion. As long as the work gets finished.”
I can’t keep the grin off my face. “I’ll let him know.”
“Daddy!” Pixie jumps down and rushes toward her father as he’s leaving the stables. “Did you see him? Did you see Porter taming Storm?”
He sweeps her up in his arms as she excitedly tells him about the stallion. I don’t miss how his jaw clenches when he glances at Porter in the paddock.
He sets Pixie down and tells her to gather her things for home.
“Why does he get a shot?” Randy asks, approaching me and Dad. “He’s brand-new ’round here.”
Not exactly, and Randy is well aware of our history with the Dixons.
“And as you can see, he’s a natural.” Dad’s tone is firm. “Heard rumors but wanted to see it with my own eyes.”
