Page 11 of Adam's Rising

“Can I have a minute?” Adam asked.

“Sure, boy.” Clara Mae nodded behind her. “Tack’s right behind ya. Show me you can ride ’em, and the job’s yours. Don’t take all day. Season starts in a week.” The woman looked toward the barn doors. “Gonna be a nice day. Owners’ll be showing up to ride soon.” With that, Clara Mae turned and made her way out of the barn, her head darting from stall to stall as she passed.

Adam watched Clara Mae’s retreat, taking in the new dawn. The sky had suddenly lightened to a pale blue —summer blue, his mother had called it. The kind of light that lingered too long in summer — Alaska’s way of pretending night never came.

Summer… Alaskans called itSeason, the time of the year when the Lower 48 flocked to his great state. Dad had always said, “Them southerners think they wanna live here, but two months into winter, and folks who can afford to cut bait, high tail it back to Malibu Beach.”

It wasn’t summer for eight weeks, but Alaskans celebrated a clear and sunny day — whenever that day fell — like it was the Fourth of July. Against his mother’s better wishes, his father had even kept Adam and his brothers home from school on sunny days, stating, “They got all winter to read; young men need sun!”

Adam sighed at the memory.

When Clara Mae was out of sight, he turned back to his horse.

“Hi, Bolt. Miss me?”

Bolt should have been mad, should have continued stomping and snuffling. Instead, he shoved his head over the door, turning it sideways into Adam’s cupped palm.

Tears burst to Adam’s eyes. It’d been more than a year, but his boy remembered him. Why wasn’t he mad at him? Adam had been mad at his father for leaving them, and it hadn’t even been his fault. The road had given away without warning. Just hours ago, Adam had been mad at Thomas… and himself.

But here was Bolt, no understanding of why Adam had not seen him, and yet, he accepted him — no questions.

“Wanna ride, baby?”

Bolt stamped his hooves excitedly, so Adam hurried to the tack room. He only needed one item.

* * *

To Clara Mae’sand two of her ranch hands’ utter shock — based on their frightened expressions — Adam used only a lead rope to escort Bolt to the edge of the barn doors, then hopped onto his back, held onto the mane for dear life, and then squeezed his mustang’s sides, feeling ribs where he’d never felt them before.

Bolt took off.

Adam didn’t pretend he possessed any control over Bolt’s actions — because he didn’t. Without a bridle, the powerful mustang was in charge. But Adam trusted Bolt. Now that he knew Clara Mae had never been able to break Storm-Born Prince’s spirit, he imagined those fractured top rails on the fence could have been caused by his spirited horse.

“Are you mad, boy?” Clara Mae shouted from behind him.

Right now, Adam was anything but mad. He leaned forward, lifting his rear off Bolt’s back. Cold air buffeted his cheeks, stung his eyes, but he felt exhilarated. Yes, it was still the worst day of his life. But this moment… here with Bolt… was pure medicine. So many people wanted to gethigh, not knowing thatthis, doing what you love, notdope, was the ultimate rush.

Bolt charged toward one of the broken fences, thankfully missing any squirrel holes. He must have slipped away every chance he got.

As the mustang closed in on the fence, Adam readied himself. After all, this was the ultimate test.

Adam leaned farther forward, tightening his hold on the dark mane. “I know you want to, but not today, okay? If you want to ride again, you have to let me win.”

The fence loomed closer and closer. “Whoa, boy!”

Bolt slowed his sprint, but still galloped.

Adam tugged on the dark mane. “Whoa, boy!”

The fence was less than twenty yards away, and still he barreled forward, undeterred.

Adam yanked on only the left side of his mane. “Bolt!”

Bolt pulled his head slightly forward, but Adam returned the mustang’s defiance with another tug. “Not today, Bolt. Barn!” he said more forcibly.

Adam didn’t want to go into the woods, but Bolt had taken him for an off-ranch ride more times than he could count. The first time he’d managed to stay on Bolt, the loving but wild mustang had jumped the fence and darted beneath the lowest branch. Adam had been knocked off and out cold, landing flat on his back. His father had been furious, threatening to put Bolt down, but Adam had begged — promising it would never happen again. And it hadn’t. Adam had learned to duck and stay low. Now, he gripped Bolt’s mane tight, bracing for a jump, praying there wouldn’t be one, and leaned his whole body into the pull.

At the last second, with only a few yards between Adam and the dangerous woods beyond the fence, Bolt followed Adam’s direction, turning so fast that clumps of mud sprayed the fence. His hooves pounded the moist ground as he moved into a full gallop again, sprinting along the length of the fence.

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