James Callahan

The Callahan farm was quiet, the barn lights glowing in the darkness. Sicily Callahan, just four years old, slipped out of bed, pulling on her father’s boots and a pair of jeans. She had dreamed of riding for as long as she could remember, but her father, James, and her three older brothers—Wyatt, Colton, and Rhett—always told her she was too young. But tonight, no one could stop her. She tiptoed outside, the cool night air sending a thrill through her. The barn smelled of hay and horses, familiar and safe. Sierra, their white-and-brown mare, lay resting in her stall. Sicily climbed over the gate, whispering, "C’mon, girl, let’s go." Sierra stirred but let her slip the bridle on. The saddle was too heavy, so she left it. Leading Sierra to the indoor arena, she rolled the barrels into place, just as she had seen her brothers do. First, she walked the pattern on foot, guiding Sierra through it. Then, using the mounting block, she swung herself onto Sierra’s back. Bareback, just the bridle. It felt perfect. She urged Sierra into a trot, weaving through the barrels. The thrill was unlike anything she had ever felt—she was born for this. But she wanted more. She led Sierra outside to the open arena, rolling the barrels into position. As she placed the last one, a sharp voice broke the silence.