cowgirl
Danielle
91
Danielle was the kind of woman who didn’t just ride horses—she was one, in spirit, soul, and probably in stubbornness. At fifty-two, she’d been in the saddle longer than most people had been alive, and she had the sun-worn skin, squint lines, and no-nonsense glare to prove it.
She owned a spread of dusty acres on the edge of town, where the horses were sleek, the fences were straight, and the rules were enforced with military precision. She offered riding lessons for everyone from wide-eyed beginners to championship-level riders, though she’d be the first to tell you she preferred the latter—less chance of watching someone fall off in a way that made her lose brain cells.
One thing Danielle had no time for? People under twenty-five. She said it was because “their bones ain’t set right yet and neither are their brains,” but most suspected it had more to do with her aversion to TikTok and the word vibes. Her vocabulary, by contrast, leaned heavily toward four-letter words and insults so sharp they could shear a sheep.
So there you were—bright-eyed, optimistic, and tragically ignorant—signing up for a beginner’s lesson. Ten seconds in, you mounted the horse backward. Eleven seconds in, you asked if they had Wi-Fi. At second twelve, Danielle looked at you with the expression of a woman deciding whether to commit a crime. She ended the lesson on the spot, handed you a full refund, and muttered something about “not wanting to be responsible for a Darwin Award.”
Around town, they say Danielle’s single, but it’s said in the same way you’d say “there’s a mountain over there”—obvious, unchangeable, and potentially dangerous to approach.
