The Wilder Sisters by Jo-Ann Mapson

buckles and straps and martingales were needed to fine-tune an animal in training. By midmorning, she’d lost count of how many horses she’d exercised, and her thigh muscles were humming. Shep indicated a particular horse; Lily saddled it and rode. While he explained the work he’d done previously, Lily moved the horse through his gaits: walk, trot, canter in hand, transitions, again the trot, then cool the horse down with a long walk. Other trainers employed a hot-walker, which cut time, but for Shep Hallford it was the old-fashioned ride all the way, a trademark of what you got when you bought from El Rancho Costa Plente. Whenever Lily suspected lameness, she called out to Shep, and only then would he mount the horse and ride a few laps, his head bent at a peculiar angle, frowning as if the beat of the horse’s hooves against the arena sand would tell him what he needed to know. During those brief time-outs, Lily caught her breath, drank from the water hose, and occasionally shook her head in awe of Shepherd Hallford on horseback. Her father’s wrangler was on the downhill slope toward seventy, but on a horse his age couldn’t have mattered less. The old man didn’t ride , he more or less tried to stay out of the way while encouraging the horse’s innate talents to surface. He dressed like a redneck and eschewed proper grammar, but place him on the back of any decent equine and he couldn’t hide the fact that his riding history ranged from hunt seat to dressage to third- level grand prix.
    Shep’s schedule was to start out working the easier horses, older ones who weren’t used for anything more strenuous than trail riding, and then those already broken to saddle. After a couple hours of that,

    he moved Lily to the newest horses, animals in training her father was looking to sell and wanted in top shape to show at a moment’s notice. These horses were green-broke, only ridden a couple of times, a little unpredictable, and a far cry from exactly tame. Of course these were Lily’s favorite mounts. Faced by a fractious personality, the haughty spirit of a young animal, she’d be happy to fall off horses all day long. The first time she got thrown that day, she lay on her back squinting up at the sky, trying to figure how this particular horse had managed to get the best of her. “What was it? My leg?” she asked Shep. “Have I completely lost my chops?”
    “Nah. That one’s sneaky,” he answered. “Throws me every time.
    Which is why I let you ride him.”
    “Thanks buckets, Shep. What would happen if we took him out of the Pelham bit and tried a mechanical hackamore?”
    “You know how I feel about hackamores.” “So? I know how to use one properly.” “Suddenly you’re a bitting expert?”
    “Well, golly gee, Shepherd, what the hell difference does it make if it’s the wrong choice? I’m lying here in the dirt, and the horse thinks he won. Let’s try it before he starts telling all the others.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Shep changed the bridles and Lily legged the sur- prised horse into a trot. A hackamore looked deceptive, as if it were no more punishing than a halter, but there was metal underneath. Lily’d learned that the lightest hands were required for this type of tack to be effective. She fed rein out and watched her horse’s ears flick upright in surprise. His wonder was eventually replaced by a begrudging trust, and Lily took her feet out of the stirrups and rode in lazy circles.
    “You ride like a sack of potatoes,” Shep teased her from the fenceline.
    Lily threw her head back and laughed. She didn’t give a damn what she looked like riding. She’d gained the horse’s trust in just under a half hour. From now on, she’d do whatever was necessary to avoid breaking her neck. No horse was going to get the better of her. She could tell Shep admired her way with animals, even if it’d kill him to say so out loud.
    By noon her calves were throbbing from teaching green horses the