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won’t be falling.”
    Crystal positioned a step stool next to Blazer and invited Seth to use it to help him mount. We watched as my dear friend, caring physician, and civic leader struggled valiantly to follow Crystal’s advice and haul his corpulent self up on Blazer. It took a few tries, but suddenly he was in the saddle and looking as though he belonged there, his Stetson pulled low over his eyes like a character in a western shoot-em-up.
    “Something else to remember,” Crystal said. “Never wrap the reins around the saddle horn. And when you get off your horse to walk him, don’t wrap it around your hand. If he should decide to take off, you don’t want to be dragged behind.”
    Soon everyone was on their chosen horses, and we split into two groups, the more experienced riders to follow wrangler Andy Wilson into the higher elevations, and my group of inexperienced riders who would accompany Crystal on a less challenging ride.
    Ten minutes later, the experienced group left the road and veered onto a rutted dirt trail leading up into the mountains. We continued on the flat surface until Crystal led us up a moderate rise leading into the lower foothills.
    We proceeded at a leisurely pace, a slow walk. Seth was directly behind Crystal, who glanced back at regular intervals to make sure all was well with her tenderfoot contingent. The rules at the Powderhom were strict, with safety always uppermost in mind. Jim and Bonnie belonged to the Colorado Dude and Guest Ranch Association, whose book of safety regulations was as thick as one of my novels.
    Although it was barely ten o’clock, the sun had heated the air, which in turn coaxed insects out of their cool homes. Seth repeatedly wiped his face with the red bandana he’d bought especially for the trip and frequently looked back to see that I was okay. I did the same with Willy Morrison. He was slumped in his saddle, his face reflecting his unhappiness. Why, I wondered, had he bothered coming to the ranch in the first place? And he didn’t have to ride a horse. Bonnie had told me that a number of guests come for reasons other than riding. In one case she recounted, a woman, dressed in expensive cowboy clothing, mounted a horse after the briefing, instructed her husband to take a picture, then immediately climbed down and never went near a horse again.
    After forty-five minutes, Crystal brought the column to a halt and suggested we dismount and stretch a little before heading back. We’d climbed higher than I’d realized. The plateau was surrounded by groves of aspen trees and ponderosa pines. From it the views were lovely, mountains providing a rugged backdrop for rolling meadows and pastures. A hawk circled overhead in the cobalt Colorado sky; chipmunks scurried from fallen tree to fallen tree, and two deer watched impassively from a safe distance. Wildflowers set the hills ablaze with color.
    “The Molloys never did show up,” Seth said, arching his back against an ache that had developed.
    “I hope they’re all right,” I said.
    Willy sat on the ground and propped himself against a tree. He was pale and breathing hard, his white shirt stained with perspiration.
    “You all right, young fella?” Seth asked, standing over him.
    Willy looked up. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he said. “Damn horse doesn’t know how to walk right.”
    Crystal heard him and laughed. “Takes some getting used to,” she said. “And some horses do walk different than others.”
    We drank from canteens provided by the ranch, then got ready to head back. Socks continued to try to entice one of us to play fetch, but we didn’t take the bait. Holly had a different game to play, which didn’t depend upon human involvement. She enjoyed tearing through brush in pursuit of chipmunks and other small furry animals.
    We started down to the road.
    “Getting used to this,” Seth said, smiling.
    “I know,” I said. “A little sore, but it’s worth it.”
    We were almost to the road