Myrton Ikard's Arc

Chapter 8 of 10

Myrton woke before dawn and drove his truck to the ridge where the mustang's shelter was. He parked a quarter mile away this time, far enough that the engine noise wouldn't carry. He walked the rest of the way with a bucket of oats and set it near the overhang entrance. Then he backed off and sat on a flat rock fifty yards down the slope. The sun came up slow, painting the cliff face orange. He waited three hours without moving. The mustang appeared at the shelter's edge just after nine, ears forward, watching him. Myrton stayed still. The stallion moved closer to the bucket, dropped his head, and ate. Myrton's chest filled with something warm and solid. He stood slowly and walked back to his truck. Tomorrow he'd come earlier and sit closer. The work was moving forward again. Back at the ranch, Myrton spent the afternoon building a wooden rail round pen near the main paddock. He needed a safe space to work with the mustang once trust was fully built. The pen would let him guide the stallion through handling exercises without risk of the horse bolting. He set each post deep and tested the rails for strength. By sunset, the structure stood solid, its circular shape clear against the darkening sky. He walked around it twice, checking every joint. When the mustang was ready, this pen would be where the real training began. The next morning, Myrton loaded hay bales onto his iron-framed cart and wheeled it across the sand to the paddock fence. His back had been aching lately from carrying heavy loads, and the cart made the work easier. He attached metal feeders to the fence rails and filled each one with hay. The setup would let him feed multiple horses without waste once the mustang joined his breeding stock. He stepped back and looked at the neat bundles separated along the fence line. Everything was coming together—the pen, the feeders, the daily visits to the ridge. He was building something that would last. That evening, Myrton sat on his porch with a cup of coffee. The ridge rose dark against the purple sky. The mustang had eaten from the bucket three days in a row now, and each day Myrton had moved five yards closer. Tomorrow he'd sit close enough that the stallion would have to accept his presence to eat. The fear that had gripped him after the truck incident was gone. He'd made mistakes, but he'd learned from them. The work required patience, and patience was something he could give. He finished his coffee and went inside, ready for whatever came next.