Cowgirls Don't Cry
Mahogany is seven.
I was flying, the wind dancing through my bright red hair. The beautiful Montana scenery seemed to blur by as my seven year old body bounced against the saddle.
But then something went wrong. My foot slipped from the stirrup, causing my heel to press harder against the morgan’s body. Instinct forced the horse to go into a gallop which caused me to bounce frantically.
I wasn’t able to balance and as the ground rose up to catch me I cried out. Sand flew up around me and dusted my outfit as my little white cowgirl hat landed a few feet away.
Like a loyal horse, Mr. Socks stopped galloping the moment he felt the body fall. Mr. Socks walked over the the white hat and brought it back to me as I dusted myself off.
“Mahogany!”
I look up to see my dad jump over the corral’s railings to kneel down beside me.
“You okay, baby?”
I nodded and sniffled, “Yeah. My hat got dirty.”
My dad laughed and dusted it off, “That’s alright, see? All better.”
He put the hat back on my head, “There. Now, what’s our saying?”
I rubbed my nose, “Cowgirls don’t cry.”
“That’s right, cowgirls don’t cry. So no tears.”
He reached over and wiped the one that was about to spill from my eye.
“Aw, did the little baby just fall off the horsie?”
I looked over to see the boy who lives a couple miles down the road.
“I’m not a baby!”
Kolt snickered, “Of course you are! You’re crying ‘cause you fell off the horse.”
“No I’m not! Cowgirls don’t cry!”
My dad laughed, “Hey, Kolt. You’re dad drive you over?”
The eleven year old nodded, “He’s with Mrs. Hansen.”
My dad smiled, “Then I guess I better go say hi.”
I sulked as my dad jumped back over the rails and walked to our house. Once he was out of site I glared at Kolt.
“Go away.”
The boy ignored me, instead crawling into the corral.
“I said go away.”
Kolt just laughed, “Why should I?”
“Because Mr. Socks doesn’t like you.”
My frown deepened when the morgan rubbed his nose against Kolt’s hand.
The boy laughed and grabbed onto the horses reigns, “Jump back on.”
“What?”
He brought the horse closer, “You have to get back on the horse when you fall.”
“I know that and I would have if you hadn’t come over.”
Together we walked Mr. Socks – named for the white fur he sported on each leg – to a railing where Kolt loosely tied him.
Walking to me Kolt helped me into the saddle.
“Just start off slow.”
I glared at Kolt, “I know, I’m not stupid.”
After he untied Mr. Socks I tuned the horse away, pushing him into a walk.
Stupid Kolt.