We stand there for several beats before a throat clears.
“Y’all ’bout done?” Charli asks.
Shelby’s eyes flit from mine down to our hands. My fingers are still wrapped around hers.
“Can I have my hand back now?”
I slowly release her.
“Yeah, I need to go. Gotta hit the Bed & Bath Barn before it closes, or we’ll be sleeping on bare mattresses.”
As I climb back into my truck a few minutes later, the tension in my chest eases for the first time all day.
One thing checked off the list. One promise kept.
I pull out onto the road toward town, headlights cutting through the dark.
Tomorrow, we move into the cabin. Tomorrow, Ruby sleeps in her own bed. Tomorrow might be hard.
But tonight, I’ve done what I could.
And that feels damn good.
Matty asks if I’m sure about this for the tenth time.
We’re standing just off to the side of the drive, boots planted in the packed dirt, watching a sweet honey-colored pony carefully step down the ramp of a trailer with the Ironhorse logo emblazoned on the side. The sun catches in her coat and turns it almost gold, like she’s been dipped in warm caramel. She blinks slowly, calm as can be, ears flicking, but not pinned, not nervous. Just taking in her new surroundings.
I don’t look at Matty when I answer, “I’m not sure at all.” Because that’s the truth and because lying to her would be pointless. She’s always been able to read me like a book.
She sighs, crossing her arms as the handler passes the lead rope over to me.
“Thank you,” I say politely.
“You know you can still back out,” Matty says as we watch the trailer pull away.
I shake my head, already reaching to rub the pony’s neck, letting her smell me, letting her settle. “No. Contract’s signed.”
And my word is my word. Even if I did feel manipulated into agreeing.
After Waylon showed up here last week—unannounced, unapologetic, armed with an ill-spoken promise to a wide-eyed little girl and just enough guilt to make me fold—I had Matty draw up the contract and send it to Holland through Caison.
Waylon had joked that I should charge him triple, like that somehow made him backing me into a corner better.
I didn’t.
But I did charge him a premium.
Ruby is young. Very young. And training a child that age takes more time, more patience, more planning. It means slow days and repetition and parents who need just as much coaching as their kids. It means responsibility that sits heavily on my shoulders because I don’t want to disappoint a little girl or crush her spirit if barrel racing isn’t for her.
And now, whether I like it or not, I’ll be dealing with Waylon Ludlow at least three times a week.
Starting today.
I lead the pony toward the main barn instead of the boarding stable. She walks beside me without pulling, her head low, trusting. That alone tells me a lot. She’s been handled well. Loved even.
“I’m putting her in here,” I tell Matty. “She’ll be more comfortable with our horses.”
Matty nods. “I’m good with that.”
