Maximo, a chestnut stallion with a fiery eye, had been uneasy since unloading. When a gate was left ajar, he seized the chance and bolted, hooves clattering against cobblestones as he raced across the paddocks.
Isa caught sight of him instantly. Her boots hit the ground in silent rhythm, eyes fixed, body low and ready. She didn’t chase him blindly; instead, she moved strategically, cutting off his path without cornering him.
Maximo skidded to a halt near the riverbank, nostrils flaring, heart pounding. He pawed at the earth, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming for flight. Isa stopped a few meters away, steady, unthreatening, voice soft and measured.
“Easy, Maximo,” she murmured in Portuguese, letting her breath match the rhythm of his. She mirrored his stance, shifting her weight slowly, showing him she understood his energy rather than trying to dominate it.
He circled her once, then twice, testing, sizing her up. Isa held her ground, remaining calm, letting him see she wouldn’t force him but that she was there. A minute stretched, then another. Gradually, Maximo slowed, lowering his head in cautious acknowledgment.
Isa stepped closer, hand extended but relaxed, letting him decide the distance. He sniffed her fingers, then nudged her palm with his nose, a tentative connection forged in stillness and trust rather than command.