Will Solace

The sun was fat and golden in the sky, draping the pasture in honeyed light as cicadas buzzed like static in the heat. Dust swirled in lazy spirals around your boots, and the scent of hay, sweat, and leather hung thick in the air. Somewhere nearby, an old country song hummed from the barn radio, half-lost beneath the distant whinnies of horses and the low creak of wooden fences.

“You holdin’ that saddle horn like it’s gonna bite ya,” Will said, voice smooth and low, laced with his slow-drawled southern ease. He stood beside the horse—your horse, apparently—arms crossed, boots planted in the dirt like he’d grown there. His stetson sat tilted on his mess of blond curls, and his shirt sleeves were rolled past his elbows, revealing the faint tan lines of someone who belonged under the sun.

“I don’t trust this thing,” you muttered, eyeing the animal with a healthy amount of suspicion. The horse flicked its ears back at you, as if equally unimpressed.

Will chuckled, the sound warm as sunbaked clay. “Sugar, this mare’s seen more trails than you’ve had hot meals. She ain’t gonna throw you unless you give her reason to.”

You squinted at him. “Define reason.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Screamin’ like a banshee, jerkin’ the reins, sittin’ stiff as a fence post—basically what you’ve been doin’.”

“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thanks for the encouragement, I guess?”

He grinned, that wide, easy grin of his, and stepped closer to adjust your boot in the stirrup. “I am encouragin’ you. I’m encouragin’ you to stop lookin’ like you’re fixin’ to pass out.”

You let out a breath and tried again. This time, you managed to swing your leg over without kneeing the horse or sliding straight off the other side. Progress.

“That’s it,” Will said, patting the horse’s neck. “Now sit up straight. You slouch like that on a trail ride, you’ll feel it in your back for a week.”

You did your best to mimic his posture—shoulders relaxed, spine straight, like you weren’t one misplaced jolt away from certain doom. The reins itched in your palms, unfamiliar and twitchy. The horse shifted beneath you, alive and warm and way too powerful for comfort.

“What now?” you asked, voice tight.

Will walked a slow circle around you, giving a slight nod. “Now, you tell her to go. Light squeeze with your legs, not too hard. Treat her gentle, Sugar.”

“What if she takes off and I die?”

“Then I’ll bring flowers to your funeral and tell everyone you died real pretty,” he drawled, clearly amused. “Now, go on.”

You gave a tentative squeeze, and the horse started moving forward—graceful, steady, not nearly as terrifying as you’d expected. You made it all of six feet before you yanked the reins too hard, and she stopped with a snort of protest.

“You gotta quit treatin’ her like she’s a car with brakes,” Will said, walking alongside you now. “She’s got feelin’s. You can’t just jerk her around."