Don't You Trust Me? by Patrice Kindl

second’s thought convinced me that this wasa gift. If I was learning a new style, no one could blame me for making mistakes.
    â€œI would be happy to,” I said graciously.
    The English saddle was smaller, I could see. I also noticed that the Western saddle had a lovely thing sticking up in the front by which you could hold on. My saddle had no such convenient handle; I would have to manage without. In any case, both horses were soon ready to ride.
    â€œAlways approach the horse with a confident attitude,” was the advice given in the Goofy cartoon. Well, that was easy enough. My entire attitude toward life is confident. I understand that when ordinary people are faced with something they fear, they feel sick to their stomach and begin to sweat. Not me. The closest thing to fear I have ever known is a nagging suspicion that I am about to get caught, which simply makes me irritable.
    I therefore walked up to Chessie and took control of her bridle, fixing her with a long, unsmiling stare. She sidled away from me to the length permitted by the bridle and then cast nervous glances at Bounce, and at Brooke’s horse, both of whom were preoccupied with Brooke. No help there. She looked back at me.
    Way back when I’d met that carnie guy, he’d told me that he recognized me for what I was because I “had that stare.” Now I knew what he meant. It’s a predator’s stare; the stare a wolf trains on the deer it plans to eatfor dinner. I kept looking at Chessie for several seconds longer, conveying the message, Screw with me, horse, and you’ll live to regret it.
    She shivered all over and then lowered her head. She was still shooting little looks at me from time to time, but she stood meekly, waiting for me to mount.
    Brooke naturally got lots of assistance mounting, while I was expected to take care of this myself, being an experienced rider. I decided to get it over with while everyone was distracted by Brooke’s flailing around.
    â€œStay still,” I ordered Chessie in a stern undertone. I took a good grip of the saddle, stuck my left foot up into the left-side stirrup, and launched myself upward. Chessie stood like a statue beneath me as I pivoted and came to rest on her back, facing forward and astride.
    Easy peasy.
    â€œGood horse,” I said in a complacent tone. Chessie shivered again and turned her head to see what I was up to. I inserted my right foot into the right stirrup and gathered up the reins, letting go of the saddle. In order to feel secure and remain upright, I discovered, you had to grip with your legs.
    A muffled shriek attracted my attention.
    Brooke was in trouble. Bounce had had to call for assistance, and she held the horse still while two stable employees attempted to shove Brooke up onto the saddle. I watched her struggles with a pitying smile.
    â€œOh, please hold still, Miss Delilah,” pleaded Brooke. (“Miss Delilah”being the ridiculous name of Brooke’s steed.)
    â€œShe is holding still, at least so long as you don’t knee her in the stomach, poor girl,” said Bounce. “Let’s try again. One, two, three and . . . up!”
    This time the little group of assistants managed to get Brooke up onto Miss Delilah’s back. “Perhaps a pony next time,” mused Bounce. “Okay, now let go of the horn.” As Brooke simply looked dazed, Bounce explained. “The horn! That thing on the pommel. The thing you’re holding in a death grip. Let go!”
    â€œLet go?” Brooke stared at Bounce disbelievingly.
    â€œYes. You need to hold on to the horse with your thighs, not your hands. You have to have your hands free for the reins.”
    â€œOh. Okay,” she said without enthusiasm.
    After she had complied and taken up the reins, Bounce took a moment to turn around and check to see how I was doing. The stable help did as well.
    I sat up a little straighter. I was conscious that I