I’m not happy she’s here. I’m not happy she’s cute. I’m definitely not happy that my horses like her, which feels like a personal betrayal.
“Left,” I say, because Ivy is about to walk Comet into a rake.
She squeaks, corrects course, and gives me a thumbs-up with the hand not holding the lead rope. The gloves I shoved at her are two sizes too big, and they swallow her wrists and make her look like a kid playing barn dress-up. Adorable. Fantastic. Exactly what this week didn’t need.
“Is this…content?” she asks, dipping her chin at her phone where it’s clipped to some little handheld stabilizer thing. “Or is this, like, pre-content? A content amuse-bouche?”
“Walking a horse,” I say. “That’s what it is.” I don’t look at her phone. I don’t look at her eyes. I look at Comet’s ears, at thesnow, at the sky that’s gone steel gray over the ridge. Work. Not faces. Work.
She hums, which, unfortunately, is also cute. “Do you mind if I get some audio? The bells when she shakes her head, the crunch of snow, your…uh, instructions.”
“No faces,” I remind her.
She mimes zipping her lips. “No faces. Got it. Hands, horses, bells. Your hands are—” She stops. “Capable. That’s what I was going to say. Very capable. This is going great.”
Jared snorts from where he’s sweeping by the fence. “This is my favorite show.”
“Keep moving, Jared,” I say.
The kid grins and scoots.
We circle the paddock, Comet’s breath puffing in slow, warm clouds. Ivy keeps pace, knees slightly bent the way I told her, boots squeaking on the packed snow. She listens. I’ll give her that. Most city folks nod while you talk and then do whatever they were always going to do. Ivy stays a half step behind Comet’s shoulder like I told her, doesn’t tug, doesn’t chatter too loud. She whispers her puns under her breath as promised, and it’s absurd and…fine. I guess it’s fine.
“Why Christmas?” I hear myself ask, which is stupid because I’d planned on a day of minimal syllables. “PR can choose anything to shine up. Why this?”
She glances at me. A curl has escaped her hat and is doing some kind of ribbon thing against her cheek. I hate that I notice. “Because people pay attention when something sparkles. And once I have their attention, I can point them toward thegood stuff. Toy drives. Local businesses. Donations that actually matter.” She looks back at Comet. “And because I like it. The lights. The cookies. The way people soften around the edges.”
I grunt. I don’t say anything about how I used to like it too. The last real Christmas I enjoyed I was wearing tan instead of flannel, and the nearest tree was a sun-bleached palm. We did a half-hearted “Jingle Bells” in a plywood rec room and tried not to look at a chair no one was using anymore. Bells don’t always sound festive. Sometimes they just sound like…bells.
“Does the sponsor know you plan to be a human sugar cookie?” I ask, because we’re not going there. Not today. Not with a storm coming and a thousand things to do.
“They hired me because my conversions are delicious,” she says, dead serious, and then winces. “That came out weird. You know what I mean.”
“I try not to,” I say, but the corner of my mouth betrays me.
She catches it. Of course she does. “Was that a smile? Quick, Jared, mark the calendar.”
“Calendar’s already full,” Jared calls. “We hit a smile quota last June.”
“Keep moving,” I repeat, but it’s less bite and more habit.
We swap Comet for Donner, who immediately noses Ivy’s candy-cane scarf with predatory interest.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“It’s okay,” Ivy says, laughing. “If I die in the line of content, tell my boss I went out festive.”
“Donner,” I warn. The gelding sighs like he’s the one burdened with foolish city folk and reconsiders scarf dining.
I check the buckles on his harness, fingers moving without thought. Leather, brass, wool—things that make sense. The world is quieter when it’s this—weight and purpose and a loop that fastens the way it did yesterday and will tomorrow. Ivy angles her phone to catch the close-up of my hands on the strap. She doesn’t shove it in my face or ask me to redo anything. Just…films. Like she’s trying to catch the truth of it instead of posing it.
“Can I get your voice?” she asks. “Just a few sentences while you work. Why you check the way you do. What you listen for.”
“Why would anyone care?”
“Because people forget,” she says. “And you make them remember.”
I hate that she’s quoting me back to myself. I hate more that she’s not wrong. I clear my throat. “I check because something that goes wrong in here goes wrong out there.” I flick my chin toward the trail. “A bell that’s loose can spook a nervous horse. A strap that looks fine can crack in cold if it’s dry. You keep your hands on what you’re responsible for.”
