I take the lead rope and start us toward the first barrel.
Honey hesitates.
I unzip my hip pack and pull out a melon ball, holding it just ahead of her nose. She follows immediately. I repeat the same trick at the pocket of the next barrel.
Ruby is steady. Comfortable. Her posture is better than I expected.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her. “Nice and tall.”
She beams.
We finish the pattern once. Then again.
By the fifth time around, I hear boots on gravel.
I don’t look up.
I already know.
Waylon has arrived.
I’m late.
And covered in mud.
Darby and I got caught repairing a broken well pump.
I hurry across the parking lot and spot them right away.
Ruby is on the pony—sitting up straighter than I’ve ever seen her sit. Pink helmet catching the sun. Little boots steady in the stirrups. Shelby’s beside her, holding the lead rope like it’s an extension of her.
Ruby sees me and gasps.
“Daddy!” she squeals.
Her whole body twists toward me, excitement cracking through her like lightning. Honey flicks an ear, but doesn’t spook, just keeps plodding forward.
Shelby tightens the rope without even looking at me.
“I’m racing.”
“I can see that. Good job, baby,” I call as I make it to the fence, where Momma and Pop stand.
Momma reaches over and squeezes my arm as I prop a boot on the rail.
“Okay, Ruby,” Shelby says gently, “eyes forward. Remember, hands soft.”
Ruby snaps back into position, biting her lip in concentration. She does exactly what Shelby said. No argument. No hesitation.
My chest tightens.
I lean against the fence and cross my arms, silently observing. I don’t want to distract her.
Shelby’s calm. Focused. She doesn’t rush Ruby or the pony, just walks them through the pattern, slow and steady. Barrel to barrel. Again. And again.
Ruby hums to herself under her breath. A wordless sound that tells me she’s relaxed. Happy.
When they stop in the center of the pen, Shelby reaches into her hip pack and gives Honey a treat. Loosens the girth just a touch.
