Morgan and Yukon

Morgan slid the door closed on Yukon’s stall. No sweet-tempered gelding, the paint’s bucking performance in the arena had resulted in Morgan eating dirt. Several folks commented that he didn’t have the necessary skills and the horse knew it. Another wondered if he was trying to avoid his own high school graduation. In stubborn defiance, Morgan refused all help. So much of their advice didn’t work with Yukon anyway. He’d remounted, ridden until the horse obeyed before dismounting in the normal way.

He peered between the bars into the stall; Yukon was munching hay, oblivious. Well, he really didn’t expect thanks for tending to the horse’s needs before his own.

Morgan limped down the aisle. At the corner he leaned his back against the wall, closed his eyes and waited for the pain in his leg and back to subside. He couldn’t enjoy the warm horse and fresh hay smells like he usually did. There were ice packs in the club room freezer if he could get himself there.

He heard something hit the floor and opened his eyes.

It was Bella, halter and lead rope over her shoulder. A brush and hoof pick had fallen out of her pink bucket of grooming supplies when she’d dropped it on the cement. “Really, Morgan. Again?”

Not the supportive response he’d like from his girlfriend. He straightened and squared his shoulders, right hand pressed to his lower back. He gave her a stage grin. “Never been better.”

Bella raised his skinned arm and cocked her head. “I disagree.”

He stared at the ragged red lines as if they belonged to someone else. “Huh. That’s different.”

Bella stepped back and looked him over from his dirt-encrusted shoulder down to his boots. Focused on the scrape. “Ready to admit you’re overhorsed and send him back to the dealer?”

He didn’t trust himself to answer in a way that wouldn’t offend her, so he looked down the aisle. The groom was scooping grain into a feed box. Horses stamped and nickered in their stalls.

She’d voiced what he didn't want to consider.

Morgan turned back. “You’re a good rider.” He untangled her dark brown braid from the halter on her shoulder, ran her soft hair through his fingers before releasing it. “Because you never back off from a challenge.” He smiled. “I’m not tossed nearly as much as when I first got him.” He beat some of the dust from his britches and winked at her. “Even rode out a few bucking sessions today before he got me off.”

She fisted her hands and leaned back like she was expecting him to irritate her by saying the horse hadn’t killed him yet. Like always, she’d irritate him right back by suggesting he wouldn’t give up until that happened. He didn’t want to go there. Not today.

Bella took a quick breath. “No hospital visits. Please?”

Realizing it was a bad time to bring up visiting her there, Morgan examined the scrape. “Won’t come to that.” Poked at it gingerly. Damn thing would be hard to hide from his folks.

She threw the brush and hoof pick back in the bucket and picked it up. “You can’t know.”

He rested his head on the wall, studied the cobwebs outlined by grey dust in the rafters. Was there a way to figure out how old cobwebs were? He'd bet some of those must have been made by spiders who lived here back when the barn first opened in the fifties. He leaned toward her. “Never saw you back down. Neither will I.”

She rested her free hand on his shoulder. “Morgy, I’m scared every time you get on that beast.”

"Bella." Morgan pulled her hand away, held it securely between both of his. “Yukon. He’s a horse. I’m a rider.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then let go. His hands landed on his waist. He licked his lips; tasted dust. “And I am getting better.”

She straightened the halter and lead rope, gave the scrape on his arm one last look. “Touché.” Grinned at him. “Need an ice pack?”