"'Cause I’m an optimist."
Daisy turned out to be a gorgeous chestnut mare with intelligent eyes that looked at me with what I could only describe as deep, soulful pity mixed with resignation. Like she’d read my file and was already bracing for the inevitable disaster.
"Don't look at me like that," I told her, shifting the saddle's weight. "I’m trying my best."
Daisy snorted, blowing air through her lips, which I chose to interpret asYour best is embarrassing.
"First," Winnie said, pulling out a brush that looked like it had survived a war, "you gotta brush her down real good. Get all the dirt and debris off before you saddle her, otherwise you’ll irritate her skin and she’ll make your life hell. And trust me, a mare in a bad mood is worse than any ex-girlfriend you've ever had."
She demonstrated, running the brush over Daisy’s coat in long, smooth, hypnotic strokes. I found myself actually paying attention to the technique instead of just watching the muscles in her arms flex.
Okay, I was doing both. But mostly the technique. Mostly.
"Your turn," she said, handing me the brush.
I stepped up to Daisy, who eyed me with the same skepticism Pickles had shown yesterday (that demonic rooster was currently number one on my enemies list), and started brushing. The motion was actually... kind of nice? Repetitive in a meditative way. The dust motes danced in the afternoon light, and Daisy’s coat softened under my hands. After aminute, she relaxed, leaning slightly into the brush strokes like a giant cat.
"Hey, she likes me," I said, genuinely pleased. "I'm a horse whisperer."
"Don't let it go to your head. Daisy likes everyone. She once tried to make friends with a coyote."
"That’s either very brave or very stupid."
"Little bit of both. She’s a sweetheart though." Winnie patted Daisy’s neck with an affection that made my chest do a weird thing. "Alright, now we’re gonna put the saddle pad on first—that’s this blanket thing—and then the saddle..."
For the next thirty minutes, Winnie walked me through approximately seventeen thousand steps of saddling a horse. The pad (which had to be positioned with NASA-level precision), the saddle (which I nearly dropped on my own foot twice), the cinch (which had to be tight but nottootight or you’d hurt the horse), the breast collar (which I didn't understand the point of but apparently was vital), and the bridle (which involved putting metal in a horse’s mouth and felt vaguely medieval).
There were so many pieces. So many straps. So many opportunities for failure.
"You’re overthinkin' it," Winnie said as I stood there staring at the cinch knot like it was advanced calculus. "It’s not rocket science."
"It feels like rocket science. There are more steps to this than my entire skincare routine."
"You have a skincare routine?"
"A very expensive one. You don't have one?"
She looked at me for a long moment, blinked slowly, then shook her head. "City boys are somethin' else."
With skin like hers? Glowing like polished mahogany without a single product? I see God truly has favorites.
"Is that a compliment?" I asked.
"It’s an observation."
I finally got the cinch tightened to Winnie’s satisfaction (it only took three tries and the loss of feeling in my fingers), and stepped back to admire my work. The saddle was on. It looked... mostly right? Probably?
"Not bad," Winnie said, and I tried not to let the praise make me feel like I’d just won a Nobel Prize. "Most people take way longer on their first try."
"I’m a quick learner."
"Or you just got lucky."
"I prefer to think I’m naturally talented."
"Sure, Sterling. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"WINNIE JAMESON, ARE YOU HIDIN' IN HERE?"
