Emma and the Cutting Horse by Martha Deeringer Page B

stood by the mare’s head as Emma stepped on. Unused to the
weight pulling on her left side when a rider mounted, Camaro took a
step to the left. The saddle slipped a little on her back. She had
what Emma’s father called “mutton withers.” Her back was wide and
flat and her withers didn’t hold the saddle in the center as well
as horses with more pronounced withers did.
    “Whoa,” Emma said, lifting the reins. She put
her foot in the opposite stirrup and straightened the saddle,
sitting still for several minutes to give the mare a chance to
relax. Then she leaned slightly to each side so that catching a
glimpse of her up there would not take the mare by surprise.
Finally, she patted her on the neck, picked up the reins again and
squeezed gently with both legs and said, “Walk up.” Nothing
happened.
    “Why don’t I lead her a little ways to show
her what you want,” her dad asked, taking a gentle hold on one rein
and stepping forward. Emma squeezed again and Camaro stepped out
obediently. Her dad removed his hand from the rein but kept walking
forward. Camaro followed.
    “Now let’s see if you have any brakes,” her
father said when they got near the end of the arena. Emma pulled
gently on the reins and said “whoa,” and Camaro stopped. She knew
that word all too well. Emma immediately released the pressure on
the bit. The movement of the bit in her mouth started her chewing
again, but she soon gave it up.
    “I think you got this,” her dad said patting
the mare and walking behind her toward the gate. Emma squeezed
again and said, “Walk up.” Camaro took two or three steps and
stopped.
    “I think that’s going to be your major
battle,” Emma’s dad said from outside the fence. “You’re going to
have to convince her to keep moving until you decide it’s time for
her to stop.”
    “That sure wasn’t my problem with Miss
Dellfene,” Emma joked, squeezing again until Camaro stepped
forward.
    In spite of her gentle nature and slow gaits,
Camaro learned surprisingly fast. She was a pleaser and did her
best to cooperate with Emma. On the first few rides, Emma’s legs
ached from squeezing her forward, but she soon learned to keep
moving until Emma signaled for a change. Her trot was pretty rough,
but it gradually smoothed out as Emma bumped the reins to slow her
to a jog. Western horses were supposed to perform at a slow jog
unless asked for more speed, and Camaro was content to saunter
along. She carried her head low as a quarter horse should, and
before long Emma had enough confidence in her to ride with a loose
rein.
    Several times Emma saw Kyle leaning on the
fence watching her. He watched briefly since he was in the middle
of chores, but he usually gave her the thumbs up sign. The early
evenings were blistering hot and Emma’s tank tops left her arms as
brown as a Texas pecan. Her father didn’t hold with riding in
shorts and sneakers, so her lightest jeans and boots kept her legs
paler than her arms and face and a lot hotter. Last winter she had
decided to grow out her short, brown hair, and it could finally be
tamed into a short ponytail, although curly wisps soon broke free
and fluttered around her face. A pink baseball cap kept her nose
from blistering and peeling.
    “Are you up to riding Rosie in the arena with
Camaro and me?” Emma asked Kyle as Thursday approached.
    “Sure thing, Susie,” he said. “If you’re not
afraid we’ll outclass you.”
    “Actually, I’m hoping that having you in
there will help convince Camaro to lope. I’ve been drumming on her
ribs with the heels of my boots, but she just trots faster. She’s
definitely not one of those super sensitive horses that comes
unglued when you kick her.”
    Thursday arrived with a rare summer breeze
from the north, and all the horses were energized by its relative
coolness. Camaro had known Rosie all her life, and gently touched
noses with her when Kyle led her into the arena.
    “Let’s get them warmed up first,”