"I can understand that," she smirks, nodding her head once.

"It's the might of being out there, nothin' but the wind pulling you back, dry dust pulsing beneath you as you race for nothin'," she elaborates, looking out towards the horizon. "There was nothing quite like that freedom, when my Chestnut would take me over them fences, out into the desert where naught but hell 'r high water could rein us back. Somethin' about that dry heat blowing through your hair 'n chappin' your lips. Never wanted to quit, once I got out there. Always resented it when someone would come lookin' for me."

She chuckles, shaking her head. After a time she peers down at the gelding, taking note of the look in his eye. She inclines her chin to him.

"He don't think he's gotta listen to you, 'cuz maybe you ain't listenin' to him. Some horses are just born to run. Pullin' 'em back is like clippin' their wings. It does something to their spirit."

She falls quiet, thinking the words over her own self.