Riders in the Storm
Swetha Amit
By the time Mark agreed to come to our regular New Year’s Eve horse riding retreat at Santa Margarita Ranch, it already felt like something between us had ended.
When we mounted our horses after arriving, the sky had already turned the color of worn steel. Rain from the past week had soaked the ground completely. We rode in icy silence. The rhythm of hooves shattered the quiet with slow, deliberate beats. The air smelled of pine and decay.
My horse, a magnificent chestnut-colored animal with a white patch on his neck named Copper, kept pausing to graze the grass. Then he would look up, ears pricked, and stare at the gray horizon. Each time he stopped, I gently nudged him with my heels. Whenever Copper moved forward, I could feel his restlessness blending into mine.
Mark was ahead of me, his back straight and almost stiff. I noticed the familiar lines of him—his shoulder slope and the tension in his hands gripping the reins too tightly. He looked tense and maybe a little too controlled.
A year ago, on this same trail, we laughed at everything—at how the cattle seemed to glare at us like unimpressed judges, at how our stretched shadows caused ground squirrels to dash away. and being in awe of the bald eagle circling overhead. Mark would keep turning back, smiling easily, and humming a tune.
Now, he didn’t look back. I couldn’t spot the squirrels, the bald eagle, or the cattle. Perhaps they sensed a storm approaching.
The silence between us stretched as we were in separate rooms after heated discussions about our long, demanding hours at my tech job and his frequent travel in marketing. What used to be small disagreements had escalated into accusations—missed calls and late nights fueled suspicions, widening the gap between us.
Copper stopped again.
Mark finally turned. “He seems restless.” His voice carried a hint of accusation.
“Maybe he feels it,” I said. “The storm.”
Mark’s jaw clenched. “Maybe it’s the rider.”
He urged his horse forward again and trotted ahead. The words hit hard. A sudden gust of cold wind slapped my face. I gasped briefly. My breathing quickened, and my heart pounded. I squeezed my legs and unintentionally loosened the reins to calm myself. Copper immediately lifted his head and then bolted. For a moment, there was no trail, no Mark—just sound and motion. The pounding of hooves, the rush of air, and my raw, animal panic.
I grabbed the reins and pulled them tight. Gradually, Copper slowed down and then stopped at a spot overlooking the valley below.
I heard Mark’s voice behind me.
“Where are you going?” he was panting.
I didn’t reply. My heart was still pounding like a scared bird’s wings. The world around me was foggy.
Two years ago, we ran along Cowell Beach barefoot and breathless, chasing each other. I remembered how he reached for me then, without hesitation, grabbed me around my waist, and swung me around. I laughed and begged Mark to put me down. The gray ocean, soft sand, swarming seagulls, and the pearl white fog around the pier felt like a blur now.
Mark pulled up beside me. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“Are you okay?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.
“I don’t know,” I said. My hands still shook, and my heart was still pounding. I took a deep breath.
A thunder roll echoed across the sky. The first drops of rain arrived—light at first, then growing steadier—softening the edges of everything they touched.
Mark gazed out over the valley, then turned back to me. His hand lifted slightly, hesitated, and then settled on his reins. I could still feel his warmth through the chilly blast of old air.
“I don’t know either,” he said.
It was the most genuine thing he had said in months.
The rain soaked my hair and our jackets.
He took a deep breath. “We can’t keep riding like this.”
“No,” I agreed.
For a while, we just stood there listening to the rain caress the muddy trails, and our horses perked up their ears.
Then he softly said, “Let’s...try again. Let’s just stay together.”
Together? Did he mean the ride or something else? I wasn’t sure. I looked into his eyes, obscured by the downpour of icy droplets.
“Shall we?” he asked, his hands in control of the reins once again.
I nodded before overthinking it and grabbed my reins.
We left without saying anything else. This time, we rode side by side. The trail squished beneath us. Our horses moved with rhythmic ease, undeterred by puddles of water and splashes of mud and dirt, as we inhaled the scent of wet earth.
The storm seemed to have settled around us. The rain continued—not the kind that destroyed everything, but the kind that brought a respite when heat levels rose. Copper moved smoothly, his earlier tension gone, and his gait more assured. Mark’s horse moved alongside him effortlessly.
The ranch shimmered with fresh green. The cattle and squirrels were still hidden. Even the eagle seemed to have vanished behind the clouds. It was just us walking along the lush trails.
At the stables, we dismounted quietly. My legs felt unsteady as they hit the ground, just like they always do after a long ride. Mark moved closer—not quite touching, but no longer keeping his distance. He gazed into my eyes.
Two years ago, we looked at each other adoringly—when we took our marriage vows—solemn, steadfast, before he wrapped me in his arms and kissed me.
“Are you okay? I asked.
He grabbed my arm as we headed back to the car. On our drive to the hotel, the rain stopped. The swirling gray clouds and mist faded away. The terrain around us was sparkling green. Mark played some music. For the first time, I felt hopeful that the storm wouldn’t return soon.
Swetha holds an MFA from the University of San Francisco and is a member of the Writers Grotto. She has authored a memoir and three chapbooks. Her stories have appeared in Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, South Florida Poetry Journal, and others. They have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fiction.
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