“It’s too hot,” I mumble, already feeling my cheeks warm from the attention.
Leo grins behind her. “Whatever your reason, it’s good to see you like this.”
“Thank you,” I say, agreeing that I do feel a little lighter and cooler.
Over the next several days, we follow along with Topper and Rusty as they show us what a typical week on the ranch looks like.Allie, Leo, and I get to work, capturing the humming, busy life of Firebird Ranch.
Topper is a farrier, which means that he’s skilled in shoeing and caring for the horses’ hooves. He’s set up outside the barn in what he calls the shoeing bay—a shaded area with rubber mats and a hitching post, designed to keep both horse and human safe during hoof work.
He demonstrates how to pick out debris with a hoof pick, check for thrush, and balance the hoof before filing it down. Horses are majestic and all, but holding a horse’s leg while it leans two tons of body weight against you? That takes some trust, and Topper has the talent and strength to do it.
Allie, meanwhile, is leaning up against the stone wall outside one of the stalls. She’s suspiciously silent for someone who usually narrates everything. I glance over, and sure enough—her eyes are fixed on Topper’s arms like they’re the eighth wonder of the world.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“Oh, I appreciate the tutorial,” she says. “Very … educational.”
“I almost believe you except you keep gasping like you’re front row atMagic Mike: Ranch Edition.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of how incredible his forearms are,” she says, biting her lip.
“You need to keep it together,” I say with a smile.
After the horse has new shoes and happily trots out into one of the paddocks, we move on to the duck pond where a couple of other vets are feeding the ducks with a package of peas. Rusty explains that the ducks are the natural pest and weed control for the ranch.
As the week progresses, I realize how important all the animals are to the everyday functioning of the ranch and how the vets enjoy caring for them.
The other thing I realize? Duke has gotten avoiding me down to a science. He’s up and out of the house when I get there to check my morning emails and all I hear is the click of his bedroom door at night when I go to write. I’m happy I’ve started my first round of interviews, which keeps my mind busy so the constant stream of Duke TV does not play over and over again in my head.
Except that it does.
The logical part of my brain knows that I need to keep him at a distance. I’m here to do a job, and I’ll be leaving in a couple months anyway. But I can’t stop thinking about how his calloused hands wandered up my thighs and started to claim parts of my body that night in his truck.
After nearly a weekof observing the rhythm of ranch life, today’s focus is on something different. After breakfast, Topper picks us up at the lodge and drives us to the south horse paddock where the Equine-assisted therapy staff is doing a demonstration for us.
“Y’all are in for a treat today,” Topper says.
“Can’t wait,” Allie says.
“You’re going to meet Dr. Irene Yazzie our Licensed Clinical Social Worker and Director of Mental Health Programs. Her grandfather was a Navajo Code Talker.”
“Wow,” Leo says.
“She works with Beckett Shaw, Equine specialist and one of our veterinarians. He served in the U.S. Army Veterinary Corps, patching up service dogs and cavalry horses overseas. These days he says the horses patchhimup instead.”
“And what exactly happens in a session?” I ask notebook in hand ready to jot down Topper’s answer.
“Beckett handles the horses, Irene handles the humans. It’s not about riding or training the horses. The client—usually one of our vets—works with a horse on the ground. Could be grooming, leading, or just standing still together. The horse reacts to whatever energy that person’s putting out. Gets nervous if they’re tense, calm if they relax. Irene helps them unpack what that means after. It’s kinda wild—like the horse becomes a mirror for what’s going on inside.”
“That sounds incredible,” Allie says, eyes on the paddock coming into view.
“Yeah,” Topper says, his voice softening. “Some of the breakthroughs I’ve seen out here—people remembering how to breathe again for the first time in years—it’s powerful stuff. Trust me, you’ll feel it.”
While I would love to believe grooming a horse could lead to real change for a person, I remain skeptical as I finish my notes. The golf cart slows to a crawl as we approach the south paddock. Sunlight flashes off the steel rails, and the low, steady thud of hooves carries on the breeze. Two figures stand inside the corral, and between them, of course, is Goose. The same chestnut menace who baptized me in a horse trough my first week here.
He looks far more dignified now, head high, tail flicking lazily, as if he knows he’s the star of the show. The man holding his lead rope moves with quiet confidence. His jeans are dusty, his boots scuffed, but he carries himself like someone who’s spent a lifetime earning the right to be comfortable in his own skin.
A few feet away stands a woman in a soft denim shirt tucked neatly into dark jeans. Coral and turquoise catch the light at her throat and wrists, the kind of craftsmanship that speaks of roots, not fashion. Her braid, streaked with silver, glows faintly in the morning sun.
