Whispered Prayers

by Alex Grayson

Bandit, the male Arabian I’ve been working at breaking in, snorts at me as I walk by. I flip him off because I’m pissed at him right now. My damn backside still hurts from him throwing me yesterday. “Don’t you snort at me, you big bastard,” I say, baring my teeth with a forced smile. Horses may seem like mindless animals to some, but they’re actually pretty smart. They’re very watchful creatures and can sense moods. Bandit’s been one of the most stubborn horses I’ve come across since I started training them eight years ago. Ordinarily, it takes me anywhere from three to eight weeks to train the horses that are brought here, but Bandit’s being ornery and doesn’t take kindly to someone being on his back. Hell, he doesn’t even like it if someone looks at him. I’ve had him for nine weeks already and have gotten hardly anywhere with him. He’s solid black, a very pretty horse, but very moody. He’s also purebred and cost the owners a fortune, which means they’re being very patient. However, I don’t see that lasting much longer if I don’t make any more headway with him. I grab a couple of apples out of a basket, stuff one in my back pocket, then approach the white-and-brown mustang. Bella came to me three years ago to be trained. A few weeks into training, the young girl the owners bought her for fell from another horse and broke her neck. She’s now paralyzed from the neck down. Understandably, they no longer needed Bella to be trained for their daughter, so I bought her from them...