Sunset Ranch by A. Destiny Page A

hanging his head over like his friends. Instead he was huddled at the back of his stall, as far from the front as he could get. I peeked over the door, and as soon as the buckskin saw me, he rolled his eyes and pressed himself against the back wall. My heart ached for him—he was so afraid of ­people, there was no doubt he’d been abused. I stood for a moment, thinking, then went down to the feed room and returned in a moment with a scoop of sweet grain in a bucket. No horse could resist this mixture of oats, wheat, and corn coated with a layer of sticky molasses. I gave the black and the paint each a handful in their feed buckets so they wouldn’t feel left out, then shook what was left enticingly at the buckskin. “Here, boy,” I crooned. He could hear the others crunching now. I dumped a handful into his feed bin. “Here, come get a snack, boy.” Then I casually strolled down the broad aisle to the front doors, where the dust motes danced in a beam of sunlight.
    Behind me I heard more crunching. I turned around. The buckskin was eating his treat, ignoring the questing noses and eager snuffles of his neighbors. I smiled to myself. The first hurdle crossed.
    Slowly, casually, I strolled back to the stall, as if I were just stopping by. The paint saw me coming and gave an eager little whicker, hoping for more snacks, no doubt. This time the buckskin remained at the front of the stall. I gave them each another small handful. The buckskin needed no encouraging now that he saw I was going to give him treats and not yell at him or yank his head around.
    This time I stayed in front of his stall as he crunched his grain. I chatted with him softly, just meaningless words, giving him a chance to get used to the sound of my voice. Meanwhile I took a currycomb and rubbed it up and down the paint’s throat, which one of the horses at my old stable used to love. The paint loved it just as much and half closed his eyes, raising his head up very high and swaying back and forth, pressing against the currycomb. Then I casually moved on to the black, rubbing him softly behind the ears with my fingertips, like a horse massage. He liked that, so I began stroking his ears very softly with both hands. It relaxed him so much that he dropped his head lower and lower, his ears relaxing out to the sides until he looked like a donkey.
    I knew the buckskin was watching us, so slowly yet firmly I reached over and patted him low down on the neck, far away from his head. “There, buddy.” He didn’t flinch, so I patted him a little higher up. Still okay.
    I slid back the bolts on the stalls and slipped halters onto the black and the paint—no problems there—and led them out to the pasture, where they easily went through the gates.
    Now for the buckskin. He was already relaxing and I didn’t want to push him, but I also didn’t want to face Rick and have to tell him that a whole day had gone by and I hadn’t even gotten a halter on him.
    Smoothly, with no sudden movements, I unlatched his stall, the halter over my arm. He eyed me, quivering slightly, but did not back away or flatten his ears. “Hey there, boy,” I crooned. Before he had time to look at the halter too much, I draped the lead line over his neck and slid the halter up over his nose and behind his ears, then fastened the throat latch. There, I’d done it! We stood there, looking at each other, both of us equally surprised, I think. He was wearing his halter. The trick was not to make a big deal out of it or get into some kind of long buildup where he had time to think about it and get agitated.
    Now came the next part: getting him out of the stall and into the pasture. I had no idea how he’d do on a lead line or what his experience had been with being led, but I tried not to let my tension communicate itself through my body. I’d learned at my old stable that horses are masters of body language. They can