Surefoot

 They called the old gelding Surefoot, and for good reason. On the rocky hills of Bellridge Farm, where the wind snapped hard and the earth twisted with roots and shale, he was the only horse the hands trusted without question. He had carried four generations of the Weller family, and not once had he stumbled.

Jacob Weller, the youngest of the line, had grown up with tales of Surefoot’s dependability. The horse had once carried Jacob’s mother down the mountain during a thunderstorm, when the truck’s axle had snapped and the radio was dead. Another time, he’d calmly sidestepped a rattlesnake and kept on walking, as if he'd sensed danger before the rider ever saw it.

So when Jacob saddled him early that morning to search for a missing calf in the north pasture, he did so with absolute confidence. Surefoot snorted and blinked lazily, but didn’t protest the weight of his aging bones as Jacob swung up.

The mist hung low, obscuring the familiar trail, but Jacob wasn’t worried. Surefoot knew the land better than any map. And Jacob, still young enough to trust his instincts, knew Surefoot was never wrong.

They rode for an hour in silence. The trail thinned, narrowed, vanished. Jacob urged the gelding forward, into thicker brush and uncertain ground.

But then Surefoot stopped. His ears flicked. He refused to budge.

Jacob nudged him again, then more forcefully. “Come on, old man. We’ve got to check the gulley.”

Still, Surefoot stood. Not panicked. Not nervous. Just… still. And sure.

Frustration rose in Jacob’s chest. He was sure the calf had wandered that way. He could feel it. The dip in the land, the distant lowing—it all pointed to the gulley. But Surefoot wouldn’t move. It was the first time Jacob had ever felt the horse fail him.

“I know I’m right,” Jacob muttered, sliding off and taking the reins. “You’re just old.”

He walked on foot toward the gulley, tugging Surefoot behind him. That’s when the earth gave way.

A sinkhole, masked by the grass and dew, yawned beneath his boots. Jacob’s leg slipped, his knee twisted, and he fell hard. Pain jolted up his spine.

Surefoot reared slightly, but didn’t bolt. He stayed just at the edge, steady as ever. Watching.

Jacob crawled back, heart thudding, breath short.

And in that moment, the truth settled in: he felt certain he was right, but he had been wrong. Surefoot, without arrogance, without anger, had simply known better.

Later, leaning against the old gelding for support, Jacob whispered, “You didn’t lead me wrong. I just didn’t ask why I believed I was right.”

Surefoot blinked. As if he already understood.

And the two of them, one wiser than the other, turned back toward the farm, slowly, surely, together.