Beck’s buckskin quarter horse,Willow, turns back at him and pins her ears as he tightens the cinch to secure the saddle around her middle. The leather squeaks as he pulls it tighter, and she steps forward with the sudden jolt.
“You’re okay, girl,” Beck says, and gives her a pat on the shoulder as he turns towards me. “You ready?”
Beck is outfitted in fringed, brown leather chaps over jeans, a gaudy fur coat, a leather cowboy hat, and pink, mirrored viper sunglasses.
I’m dressed in similarly outrageous garb, though I’ve gone for a one-piece snow suit in neon pinks, purples and blues. Then tied the look together with same sunglasses Beck has on.
We look ridiculous, and we look like everyone else here.
Spectators wander around in over-the-top furs, bright snow suits, and western wear. Skijoring isn’t just about the event itself, it’s the whole atmosphere. Heartwood’s been going all out, ever since the competition’s inception.
“Born ready,” I reply, picking up my skis and following Beck and Willow out of the staging area and down the block.
As we round the corner, the racing strip comes into view. Main Street gets blocked off for the event, and the whole town gets involved.
This year’s event is even bigger than the last. Every business seems to have a booth set up in front of their storefronts, and bonfires dot the sidewalk the whole length of the street.
I spot a tent with the Thistle + Thorne logo, and Poppy, handing out steaming cups of coffee and hot chocolate. My eyes lock on her pink cheeks, and her plush lips, as my mind drifts back to our conversation at Grady’s. Something pricks at my chest as I wonder if she’s found her match yet.
My gaze is pulled away from her as the skier and rider pair before us stop at the end of the street and cheers from the crowd ring out as they receive their score. The skier landed a perfect 360 with a tail grab, and the horse ran the course without knocking any of the markers.
It was a clean run.
But Beck is one of the best riders out here, and Willow is very comfortable towing me behind her. She’s a feisty mare, which makes her a fierce competitor. So, it’s down to me and my airtime.
My stomach drops when I see the jump I have to land. Of course I’ve done bigger, hell, I’ve done this event many times before. But landing on flat, snow-covered concrete is a different beast after a knee injury. The last thing I need is to blow it out again before World’s, on the off-chance I still get to compete.
I don’t have any longer to second guess my choice, because the announcer is on the mic, calling our names.
I set myself up behind Willow, and Beck double checks that my rope is securely attached to his saddle horn before he makes a clicking sound with his tongue and gives her a squeeze with his legs.
The muscles in Willow’s hindquarters ripple and flex as she picks up into a canter. We have about a hundred meters for her to get up to the speed I’ll need to make the jump. Within no time, all four feet are off the ground, and she transitions seamlessly into a gallop.
The rope pulls tight, and I tuck myself so my knees are bent, arms braced as I’m dragged along. Willow reaches the jumps and veers left. Right as I hit the incline, I let go of the tow rope allowing momentum take me up over the jump and into the air.
Here we go.
I’ve only done this move once before, and on a downhill course, but Willow gave me enough speed that I think I can make it. When my skis lose contact with the snow, I drop my shoulder, turn my chest to the sky. I twist my tips and grab one as I rotate in the air, and within a split second, I’ve landed a Rodeo 5.
My knee screams as I make contact with the ground, but the pain is dulled by the roar of the crowd around me as I land backwards on the decline and complete my final 180 turn.
I give them the signature Jett Landry victory move, lifting one ski and pumping my fist, bringing my elbow to my knee.
Beck is ahead of me, turning Willow in a tight corner to face me again. But when I glance away from him, my gazelands on an unfriendly face in the crowd. A familiar scowl. A disappointed, parental glare.
Dan.
I don’t even hear my score being called, because the look on Dan’s face is all I can focus on. It tells me that I’ve fucked up, again.
Add it to the list of things I’ll be eternally punished for.
Fuck it.
Life’s too short to have regrets. I turn my skis sharply to stop, and pop my boots out of my bindings, picking my skis up off the snow. I shove my way past Dan, back through the crowd, and keep walking until I find myself stopped in front of Poppy’s booth outside of Thistle + Thorne.
I don’t know how I’ve ended up here, only that I’ve wanted to talk to her since I saw her face in the crowd. And a part of me is hoping Dan might go easy if he doesn’t catch me alone.
“Hi,” she says as I approach.
