Educated

My instincts told me to let go of the saddle horn—the only thing keeping
me on the horse. If I let go I’d fall, but I’d have a precious moment to reach
for the flapping reins or try to yank my calf from the stirrup. Make a play for
it, my instincts screamed.
Those instincts were my guardians. They had saved me before, guiding my
movements on a dozen bucking horses, telling me when to cling to the saddle
and when to pitch myself clear of pounding hooves. They were the same
instincts that, years before, had prompted me to hoist myself from the scrap
bin when Dad was dumping it, because they had understood, even if I had
not, that it was better to fall from that great height rather than hope Dad
would intervene. All my life those instincts had been instructing me in this
single doctrine—that the odds are better if you rely only on yourself.
Bud reared, thrusting his head so high I thought he might tumble
backward. He landed hard and bucked. I tightened my grip on the horn,
making a decision, based on another kind of instinct, not to surrender my
hold.
Shawn would catch up, even on that unbroken mare. He’d pull off a
miracle. The mare wouldn’t even understand the command when he shouted,
“Giddy-yap!”; at the jab of his boot in her gut, which she’d never felt before,
she would rear, twisting wildly. But he would yank her head down, and as
soon as her hooves touched the dirt, kick her a second time, harder, knowing
she would rear again. He would do this until she leapt into a run, then he
would drive her forward, welcoming her wild acceleration, somehow guiding
her even though she’d not yet learned the strange dance of movements that,
over time, becomes a kind of language between horse and rider. All this
would happen in seconds, a year of training reduced to a single, desperate
moment.
I knew it was impossible. I knew it even as I imagined it. But I kept hold of
the saddle horn.
Bud had worked himself into a frenzy. He leapt wildly, arching his back as
he shot upward, then tossing his head as he smashed his hooves to the
ground. My eyes could barely unscramble what they saw. Golden wheat flew
in every direction, while the blue sky and the mountain lurched absurdly.
I was so disoriented that I felt, rather than saw, the powerful penny-toned
mare moving into place beside me. Shawn lifted his body from the saddle and
tilted himself toward the ground, holding his reins tightly in one hand while,
with the other, he snatched Bud’s reins from the weeds. The leather straps