"Morning, Grandpa." I nod toward the colt. "Where'd that one come from?"
"Auction in Denver." His voice is gravel on gravel.
Kit spots Grandpa and the rope and hops down. "I'll do it," she announces, like she's offering to fetch the mail instead of volunteering to dance with half a ton of unbroken horseflesh.
Grandpa doesn't even look at her. "Billy!" His voice carries across the yard like a whip crack.
Billy, one of the ranch hands, steps out of a stall, all elbows and knees despite Mom feeding him like he's got a hollow leg. Kid's nineteen but carries himself like he's seen more miles than most men twice his age. His sandy hair's sticking out every which way from under that ratty ball cap he never takes off, and his jeans are clean but faded. He showed up on our doorstep four years ago, hitchhiking and lying about his age. Grandpa took one look at him and said, "Give him a meal and a job. He'll earn the rest." And he did.
"Billy's been doing pretty good with the young ones," Grandpa says, his tone brooking no argument. "I want him to try."
Kit's face flushes red as her shirt. "You think I can't handle him because I'm a girl.”
"Kit." The warning in Grandpa's voice could stop a charging bull.
Kit appears to live beyond warnings these days. She plants her hands on her hips and squares off with the old man. "I've been riding since I could walk, and I can rope better than any of you, but you want to give him the shot because he's a guy."
Billy shifts uncomfortably, clearly wishing he could disappear into the barn walls. The kid hates being the center of attention under the best circumstances. He takes the rope from Grandpa and heads toward the pen.
"It's not about being a girl," I say. Both Kit and Grandpa turn to look at me. "It's about being too keyed up."
Kit whirls on me. "You're taking his side? Mr. I can't be bothered with the ranch."
I drop the wheelbarrow—full of my last half hour's worth of work—with a clunk that echoes through the barn. "I'm taking the horse's side." I keep my voice level. "You're wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. That colt can feel your energy from here, and it's making him nervous."
As if to prove my point, the bay pins his ears and snorts, dancing sideways.
"You want to work with him? Fine." I continue, studying my sister's face. "But first you need to settle yourself down."
Kit's face cycles through anger, hurt, and pure frustration. She knows I'm right—but admitting it means backingdown, and backing down isn't in her DNA any more than it's in mine.
"This is bull crap!" she yells, kicking the barn door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
The colt explodes into motion. He rears up on his hind legs, striking at the air with front hooves then comes down bucking and kicking. Billy, who had been slowly approaching with a halter, scrambles backward so fast he nearly trips over his own boots.
I'm over the fence before I consciously decide to move, my boots hitting the dirt inside the round pen as Billy retreats toward the gate.
"Hand me the rope," I tell him, keeping my voice low and calm.
Billy passes me the lead rope with obvious relief.
The colt wheels around to face me, nostrils flared and white showing around his eyes. He's a heck of a looker when he's mad—all muscle and attitude, fighting something he can't figure out.
"He's reacting out of fear; pushing back because he doesn't know himself yet," I tell Billy, though my eyes never leave the horse.
"Are you talking about the horse or about me?" Kit's voice carries from the fence.
I glance over at her and can't help the smirk that tugs at my mouth. Even in the middle of a tantrum, my sister's too smart for her own good. "Maybe both," I admit.
Kit growls low in her throat. She knows she's been called out, and part of her respects the honesty.
I turn my attention back to the colt, who's dancing around the pen.
I stand still in the center; rope coiled loose in my hands and let him move. Let him run off the adrenaline and fear until he starts to wonder why I'm not chasing him, why I'm not demanding anything from him and giving him the space to figure himself out.
It takes maybe five minutes before he boils down to a trot, his breathing evening out as he realizes I'm not a threat. Another minute and he slows to a walk, finally stopping to face me from the far side of the pen.
We size each other up.