"Kirby," Peg said, low and even. "Don't you move."
Kirby had been reaching for the dangling rein. He stopped with his hand in the air.
Peg let herself through the arena gate. She did not run. Her father had told her that too. You never run at a horse that's thinking about blowing up, because you will only help him make up his mind.
She walked toward the bay's left shoulder at an angle, the way you would walk up to a dog you didn't know. She talked the whole way. It was nonsense mostly, the low singsong she had used on colts for forty-six years. Easy now. Easy, big man. We've got all day.
The bay's back stayed humped. One hind foot stamped the dirt. But his near ear swung toward her voice.
Peg took the rein a foot from the bit. She did not pull. She drew his head around toward her, slow and steady, until his nose was nearly at her hip. A horse with his head bent around to one side has a hard time bucking. He can turn, but he cannot get his back under him.
"Emma, honey," Peg said, in the same easy voice. "You're doing just fine. I want you to lean forward and put both arms around his neck. Like you're hugging him. Good girl."
Emma did it. Her face had gone pale, but she did not cry.
"Now you're going to slide down off my side, like a sack of oats. I've got you. Ready? Here we go."
Emma slid. Peg caught her under the arms with her free hand and set her on the ground behind her. Then she let go of the rein and backed away with the girl, step by step, keeping herself between Emma and the horse.
They were at the gate when the bay blew.
He bucked straight down the long side of the arena with the empty saddle flapping, kicking at the sky, grunting with every jump. He hit the far fence, spun, and bucked back up the other side. The stirrups slapped his ribs. Dust hung in the cold air like smoke.
Doug came over the rail and gathered his granddaughter up in both arms.
Kirby stood in the middle of the arena and watched the horse he had sold as kid safe try to throw a saddle into Wyoming.
It took the bay four minutes to quit. When he finally did, he stood blowing in the corner, wet and wild-eyed and fully awake.
Doug was shaking. He set Emma down on a hay bale and turned toward Kirby with his fists closed.
"Doug," Peg said. "Let me."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he sat down on the bale next to Emma and put his arm around her.
Peg found Kirby by his trailer. He was leaning on the fender with his hat pushed back and his eyes on the ground.
"How much did you give him?" she asked.
He didn't pretend. She would think better of him for that later. "A shot this morning. Same as the fella I bought him from told me." He rubbed his face. "He bucked off two dudes at a guest ranch down by Big Timber. They went under in August and I bought him cheap. Hay's so high this year I can't feed my own. I just needed him gone before winter."
"You put a nine-year-old girl on him, Kirby."
"I know it." His voice cracked on the second word. "I know it, Peg. I thought it'd hold till they got him home."
"And then what? She gets thrown in her own yard, and you're not there to see it?"
He had no answer for that. She hadn't expected one.
They walked back to the brand office together. Doug handed over the yellow paper, and Kirby tore it in half himself and wrote out a check for the full amount.
Peg looked up at the clock over the sale ring. It read 12:15.
"Kirby," she said. "It's after noon. Now I'll make you an offer."
He looked at her like she'd lost her mind.
"Eight hundred dollars for the bay. Bucking horse money. That's fair, and you know it is." She pulled off her glove and held out her hand. "And if I ever hear of you doctoring a horse for a sale again, I'll walk into this office and tell the inspector what I saw today. Every word."
Kirby looked at her hand for a long time. Then he shook it.
"He's not a bad horse," he said quietly. "Somebody taught him that."
"I know," Peg said. "Somebody can teach him different."
Doug Ames found her at her trailer while she was loading the bay. He stood there turning his cap in his hands.
"Mrs. Halvorsen. I was short with you this morning."
"You were scared of disappointing her," Peg said. "That's not the same as being wrong."
"She's had a hard year."
"I know it." Peg latched the trailer gate. "I've got a mare at home named Biddy. She's twenty-three and she's carried more grandkids than a school bus. Bring Emma out Saturday. If they like each other, we'll talk."
Doug's face changed. He nodded, because he could not quite talk.
The first snow came the next week. On Saturday, Emma rode Biddy around Peg's round pen at a walk, both boots in stirrups Peg had shortened herself, and Doug leaned on the fence with a thermos of coffee.
In the next pen, the bay stood with his head over the rail, watching them. He had been at the Halvorsen place eight days. He still pinned his ears when Peg came in with the saddle. But he had stopped running to the far corner.
Peg checked her watch. Ten past twelve. She picked up the halter and went to find out which horse he had decided to be this afternoon.
