“See how he responds,” Irene says, turning toward us. “He’s not walking with Allie because she had to lead him, it’s because he trusts her.”
Leo keeps his steady hands on the camera. “That’s … kind of amazing.”
I can’t help but agree. There’s something quiet and humbling about the way Goose notices everything and reacts to Allie’s pure sunshine vibe.
“When we work with veterans, this is often the first time they feel seen without judgment,” Beckett adds.
Allie and Beckett walk in a circle through the arena while Irene watches from the center. I’m almost positive Allie is desperately trying to hold back tears which is why I’m envious of her. She’s so open and real. Nothing stops her from feeling everything.
And it’s not that Allie hasn’t weathered her share of storms.She grew up under the careful eye of parents who love her fiercely, but who also watch her like she might break. After losing her older brother in a childhood accident, her mother and father became protective to a fault. Allie was expected to smile sweetly, attend the right schools, and never cause a ripple. So of course, she grew into a woman who craves the opposite—spontaneity, magic, freedom. She reads palms at brunch, always hangs a dreamcatcher in her windows, and is always chasing the next horizon.
“Can’t believe how that horse loves her,” Topper says to me as we watch Allie continue to walk.
“That’s Alison Whitlock.Everyoneloves her,” I say.
“I can see why,” Topper says.
I smile noticing how Topper watches Allie like a puppy dog coveting their favorite toy. “She likes you too.”
Topper gapes at me for a moment, his ears turning red. “Oh, I … well …”
A crunch of gravel under heavy boots gets our attention, and Topper and I turn in unison to see who owns such a stride.
“Uh-oh, here comes the brass,” Topper mutters, stepping away from the fence.
I instantly recognize him. Broad-shouldered, wearing jeans, boots, and a ten-gallon—Stedman Jones, the man in the Bill Pickett rodeo photos I saw in the library.
Topper stands with straighter shoulders as Stedman approaches and so do I, as if he is lining us up for drills.
“Mornin’, Sarnt,” Topper says, half-saluting.
“Westin,” Stedman says. “At ease.”
Topper and Stedman chuckle, embrace and slap each other on the back before releasing.
“You must be the writer,” Stedman says.
“How did you know?” I blurt out. Topper and Stedman both glance at me half-smiling.
Well, you are holding a pen and notebook, genius.
“I mean,” I say, touching my forehead. “Yes, I’m the writer. Roxanne Denning.”
Stedmanshakes my extended hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Stedman Jones.”
“Yes, I saw photos of you … from the rodeo.”
“Yes, ma’am. My wife Millie and I just got back from a show in Texas.”
“I’d love to speak with you about your shows and learn more about that organization.”
“It would be our pleasure. We’re here for a stretch and then off to Conyers, Georgia in August. The doctor’s got Goose out?” Stedman leans over the fence next to me.
“She’s just showin’ our new friends how it’s done,” Topper replies.
“I see, and where’s Faraday?” Stedman asks.
The sound of his name sends a prickle of light through my chest. So frustrating and yet, I’ve also been wondering where he is.
