I hold my hand out for her to sniff. “We are in desperate need of a safe escape,” I tell her. She chuffs at my hand, then nuzzles me, so I give her a friendly scratch.
When I was very young, Uncle Henry taught me how to saddle a horse long before he let me ride one alone. “They’re a lot to handle,” he told me as he fed Betsy, our palomino, a carrot. “You can’t show fear. You must show respect.”
“I’ve ridden a horse before,” I told him. I remember that conviction clearly. I didn’t know how to saddle a horse, but I did know how to ride one. It was something left over from my life before the Kansas farm.
“Still,” Henry said as he ran his hand down Betsy’s snout, “it’s best if we take it slow. For your sake, and for Betsy’s.” But before long, I was racing the wind with Betsy and only on her back did I feel like myself in those early years.
I find a nameplate for the mare to the left of her stall. “Sabil?” I say and the horse sighs. “I’d like to saddle you now, if that’s all right?” She chuffs again, which I hope is her consent.
“You’re good with animals,” Rook comments as he slumps against the wall of Sabil’s stall.
“It’s just a matter of being kind, isn’t it?”
He wipes a spot of blood from his chin. “Is it?”
In the soft lamplight of the stables, it’s clear just how much of a beating Rook has taken,yet again.
How much damage can one man handle? He was just starting to heal from his previous wounds.
“Are you familiar with tack?” I ask him.
He searches what knowledge he has. “Yes, I believe I am.”
“Do you think you have the strength to gather the items? If you don’t, that’s okay.”
“I can manage, Kansas. Don’t worry about me.” His grin is just this side of playful, as if he finds my worry amusing.
But I amworried. There’s a bruise appearing across his cheek and his stance is lacking rigidity, as if it hurts him to be upright.
Still, he pushes away from the wall and disappears into the tack room.
I unlatch the half door of Sabil’s stall and ease inside. I’m still in my giant ball gown and it trails on the stone floor, catching shoots of hay as I go. The mare shifts her stance, as if to make room for me.
“I have to be honest,” I tell her, “I don’t know what we’ll encounter out there.”
The alarm has gone silent, which can only mean whoever is entering the Hollow must already be here.
“If you’d rather stay safe and cozy in your stall, you can tell me.”
Sabil bobs her head and neighs, her big dark eyes staring at me.
“If you’re sure?”
She nickers and I can’t help but smile.
Sabil reminds me of Betsy—she fears nothing.
Rook returns just a minute later with a saddle pad and a black leather saddle. Henry taught me I should always brush the horse, then check her over before saddling her, but there’s no time for that. Hopefully Sabil will forgive me.
With Rook on one side of her and me on the other, we situate the pad, then Rook hoists up the saddle. We cinch her in quickly.
“Up you go,” Rook tells me.
“You should go up first. You’re hurt.”
“Am I?” That grin returns.
“Fine.” I put my foot in the stirrup and with Rook’s help taming my dress, I manage to get up. Rook is behind me in the saddle within seconds.
