I explain to Priscilla that we’re going to start by having Ruby help me scoop melon balls. When she asks why, I tell her the truth—that it helps young riders relax. Gives them something to do with their nervous energy and makes them feel like they’re helping.
Then I crouch beside Ruby. “We’re gonna make snacks for your pony.”
Ruby’s eyes widen. “For Honey?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Melons are safe and healthy. They help keep ponies hydrated, which is important. And they’re a little sweet, so they make good rewards for when Honey does a good job.”
Ruby nods solemnly, like this is very serious information. “Like Nana makes cookies when I’m good.”
“Yeah. Just like that. And since Honey isn’t a trained barrel horse yet,” I add, glancing at Priscilla, “we’ll use the melon to help lead her around the pattern.”
Grandma pours Priscilla a cup of tea, and the two of them watch as Ruby and I get to work. I show her how to hold the scoop, how to press just right. The melon balls come out uneven and tiny, but Ruby is careful and proud, placing each one into the baggies I’ll tuck into my hip pack.
By the time we’re done, she’s calm. Focused.
As we’re sealing the last baggie, the back door opens.
Priscilla looks up, startled. “Oh—”
Holland steps in, carrying a box nearly as big as Ruby. “Hope I’m not late.”
He lifts out a Double T youth barrel saddle set—pink crosses painted across it, turquoise horseshoes, Ruby’s name in curly letters stitched into the back. A pink helmet with sparkles follows.
Ruby loses her mind.
She gasps, then jumps up and down, then squeals so hard that she can barely breathe. “It’s PINK!”
Holland chuckles. “I couldn’t let my girl start new lessons without a saddle of her own.”
She throws her arms around his legs. “Thank you, Papa.”
I watch the old, pompous cowboy melt as he pats her back. Then he lets her drag him to help put it on Honey immediately.
Out at the barn, Holland assists with tacking up while I supervise. I let Ruby feed Honey a couple of melon balls first, then explain that treats usually come after work so the pony knows she did a good job.
We lead Honey out to the round pen, where Cabe set up three practice barrels earlier this morning. The dirt is freshly dragged, the barrels evenly spaced.
I warn them up front, “Today’s going to be boring to watch.”
Priscilla pulls out her phone, already snapping photos. “That’s okay.”
“We’re just walking the pattern,” I explain. “Letting Ruby and Honey get comfortable with each other.”
“They’re already comfortable,” Holland barks.
I let out a steady breath.
Lord, give me patience.
“Well, they’re in a new environment, and since Honey isn’t a barrel pony—”
“Holland, don’t try to tell Shelby how to do her job. Just watch quietly, or you can leave,” Priscilla demands.
I watch as Holland Ludlow—Boss Hog of Wildhaven, Wyoming—swallows his next argument and walks to the side, tail between his legs.
Priscilla’s gaze comes to me, and she smiles. “Go ahead, dear. We’ll just be over there, watching while you do your magic.”
They stand on the outside of the fence while I help Ruby into the saddle, adjusting her safety stirrups, checking the leathers. I tell her we’re going to go nice and slow. That she should breathe. That there’s no rush.
