To the Ends of the West

2. The Paint

Lottie stood with a determined scowl, gripping the reins of the wild-eyed horse that pawed and jerked against the restraint. Her fine, blue and white dress was already smeared with dirt, and her hands were too delicate for the rough leather reins, but none of that seemed to stop her. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to break the horse on her own.

Her parents wouldn't have approved of her being here. They'd have much rather seen her at home, sewing or parading around town in the expensive, flashy dresses they bought to show off their wealth—dresses Lottie couldn't stand. They never cared what she actually wanted, so she found herself here, defying them in every way she could. The only problem? She didn't know the first thing about breaking a horse.

The creature bucked hard, nearly pulling the reins from her hands, and Lottie swore under her breath. She refused to let go, though, as if by sheer force of will she could tame it.

"You got ahold of all that?" a voice called out from behind her, low and slow.

Lottie spun around, still gripping the reins, and found herself staring up at a young man standing at the edge of the corral. He was about her age, with a wild, scruffy look about him, wearing a beat-up hat that shaded his face. He leaned casually against the fence, arms crossed, with a hint of a smirk. Even though he was no older than 17, he carried himself with the confidence of someone much older. His smirk told her he'd seen this kind of mess before.

"I've got it," Lottie shot back, her voice sharp and defensive, though she wasn't fooling anyone.

The boy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "It don't look like it."

Before she could reply, the horse bucked again, harder this time, and Lottie felt herself being flung backward. She hit the ground with a thud, the breath knocked clean out of her lungs. Pain shot up her spine, but worse than that was the humiliation. She'd wanted to prove herself, to show everyone that she could handle this—yet here she was, staring up at the sky.

For a moment, she lay there, gasping, as the young man moved closer. Instead of helping her up, he knelt beside her, a bemused expression on his face. "Told ya it didn't look like it," he said, his tone teasing yet not unkind.

Lottie glared at him, pulling herself into a sitting position. "I can handle myself," she insisted, though her voice wavered a little.

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Yeah? Then why are you on the ground?"

"Maybe because this is just an ass painted like a horse," Lottie shot back, brushing the dirt off her dress.

He laughed again, a genuine sound that made her stomach twist. "Maybe. But I think it's more likely you don't know what you're doing." His gaze softened, and there was a hint of something—perhaps sympathy?—in his eyes. "You should probably take a step back. That horse isn't going to listen to you unless you show it some respect."

Lottie glared at him, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "Respect?" she echoed, feeling a mix of anger and frustration. "And how do you propose I do that?"

"I can help you," he offered, shrugging as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "But you'll have to let me."

Lottie hesitated, torn between pride and the undeniable allure of finally learning to ride. She couldn't deny that there was something in this boy's demeanor that intrigued her, a confidence that made her want to prove herself to him, to show she could be more than just a pretty face in a dress.

After a moment's pause, she relented. "Fine. Show me."

The boy stepped forward, all relaxed confidence as he moved toward the horse, now snorting and stomping the ground. "Let me show you how it's done," he said, more of a statement than a question.