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Lots of Gone in her Eyes:

She’s a better hand with a horse than he is, and she has to be because brute strength and courage-from-a-can are not tools in her box.

He smiles indulgently at the tools that are in her box, her soft, quiet ways, her determination to let the colt come to her, the time she spends in a pen that is round.

He’s more wham and jam, rope ’em and choke ’em, make ’em spin a hole in the dirt, jerk, job, jab, give ’em a taste of iron, teach that son of a bitch who’s boss, and he’ll get a horse with lots of white in his eye, lumps on his ribs, fear in his breath, a hard mouth, and don’t turn your back.

He’s all big hat, no cattle, big spurs, no balls.

She watches videos from the guys who advocate a better way than the Lonesome Dove-get-on-’em-and-ride while he makes fun from the kitchen where he drinks whiskey with his buddies.

She knows about wham and jam, choke ‘er while you make ‘er spin, jerk, job, jab, give ‘er a taste of a real man, teach that bitch who’s boss, and he gets a girl with lots of gone in her eyes, plans on her mind, fear of the dark, a hard heart, and sympathy for every horse he rides.

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