BY RENNIE DYBALL
I hadn’t seen the gelding in two years. And I hadn’t ridden him in twice as long.
He was the best horse that ever happened to me. Someone else’s heart horse, but for a stint, I got to call him mine.
He taught me how it’s supposed to feel.
How to measure a line just right, finding the perfect gap out over the oxer.
How to confidently trot into the show ring at venues I’d only dreamed about.
To win the tricolors, but to cherish the white and purple rosettes earned among the very best company.
To trust so fully that walks around the farm could be done on the buckle, watching the sun set together.
Would he still recognize me?
My daughter and I let ourselves into his paddock. She loved him too, recognizing his kindness, his specialness, in a way that only children can. He watched us with interest as we tiptoed through the mud, greeting him in sing-song voices. I produced a bag of apple slices and he sidled up next to me.
I rubbed his forehead, his muzzle, the thick crest of his neck, his favorite scratching spots retained in muscle memory. At one point he paused. Brought his face close to mine.
Hey, buddy. It’s me.
He ate up the apples, and all of our attention, licking our hands the way he always did, allowing us snuggle his gorgeous head and kiss his perfect face.
A pony ambled over, inquiring about the crinkling bag. The gelding pinned his ears, turned away from us, and lunged. “These are MY girls.”
The pony retreated.
The gelding turned back to us, ears perked. “Now, where were we?”
We took our time snuggling. Scratching. Visiting.
When he followed us to the gate, my daughter and I both held back tears. Sure, he hoped for more treats. But he remembered us, too.
At another farm just a short drive away, a big bay mare grazes in her paddock. I let myself inside, lead rope in hand. The moment she notices me, she walks right over. Tail swinging, ears perked, expression eager.
And I love her.
Instantly and wildly, like my nine-year-old does when she connects with a horse. Like I used to. Like we all do.
I ride the mare for the first time, and I feel right at home. We work together as best we can for being strangers. The next ride is better. The next, better still.
Then, a roll top out of a short turn. I see it from the corner and we find it together, right out of stride.
And I recognize myself.
On the eve of a partnership I didn’t see coming, I’m grateful for the heart horses.
The mare, like the gelding, is her owner’s heart horse.
I always thought I had to wait for the horse who was officially mine. The purchase, the dream, the finish line, the embodiment of the goal with a soft muzzle and the kind eye.
But maybe not.
Maybe they’re called heart horses because it’s where they live inside you, and that’s all that matters.
They may not show up the way you expect.
They may not be the one you think.
But when the mare drops her head into my arms, I know.
She lives there, too.
Rennie Dyball is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author who has written more than 20 books, including the Show Strides middle grade series that she co-authors with Piper Klemm. Rennie is a freelance editor, a ghostwriter, a college essay coach who competes in the adult hunter and equitation rings. She lives in Maryland with her family.
