When I finish, I stand for a moment with my chin resting on the top rail, watching him flick his tail and stamp a fly off his hock. There are other horses in the barn, but none of them feel like a question I’m being asked to solve. Red Ledger’s the only one I want to spend hours with right now.
Jupiter Rising has trained with me for months now and is ready to race. I look forward to seeing what he can do. Progress doesn’t announce itself. But it reveals itself in so many small ways you have to watch and be attentive to.
I place a blanket over him and the saddle comes next. This is where horses like him usually draw the line. I lift it slowly, keeping my body angled away to let him see everything before it happens. He tenses just a notch. But he doesn’t move off. I wait. Count my breaths and give him time to respond if he wants to.
He exhales and that’s a positive sign. I set the saddle down. Cinching it up, I pause with my hand flat against his side. I can feel the ripple of his muscle and the faint pulse beneath my palm. There’s stillness, and then the faintest shift as he blows out and relaxes into it. The moment is so small, so easy to miss, but it doesn’t slip past me.
“That’s it,” I tell him softly. “Nothing’s changed.”
When I lead him into the riding pen, his gait is careful but willing. I mount without ceremony.
The first few strides are tentative, his body coiled like he’s waiting for a correction that doesn’t come. I keep my hands light, let him find his balance, let the rhythm settle before asking for anything more.
We walk. We pause. We walk again. That’s all. Five minutes in the saddle is plenty for today.
When I dismount, Red Ledger lowers his head and blows out a breath that feels like relief. I rest my forehead briefly against his neck, letting the heat of him soak in.
“See?” I whisper. “We can have fun together. I had fun.”
Back in the stable near the tack room, I loosen the girth and hang the saddle.
Harrison should’ve seen that. I don’t need him here as an audience. I know that. I’ve worked alone for a long time. I prefer it most days. Working alone with a horse means fewer variables and disappointments.
Still, I have to admit there’s a part of me that wants to see him in some strange, almost insistent way. I picture him in the window, that stillness he carries like a discipline. I like the way he listens without trying to fix things. His attention feels deliberate when he looks at me and Red Ledger too.
I don’t like that I miss it. I don’t like that his absence sharpens my awareness instead of dulling it.
I rinse my hands at the sink and dry them slowly, grounding myself in routine. This is what I do. This is what works. Horses respond to consistency. People … less so.
I write up my notes for the day.Saddled without resistance. Mounted calmly. Walked under saddle. Ended on a positive note.I keep it professional, even though part of me wants to write more. It was a good day for the colt and I’d like to mark the moment as something bigger than it is. We made real improvement. Still, I would say his trust is fragile.
Red Ledger is learning that interacting with a caregiver and a rider can be pleasurable and fun. He’s learning to want to do things instead of feeling like he has to. I close the notebook and slide it into my bag.
The barn is quieter now, the other grooms and riders having finished their morning routines and drifted out for lunch or cigarettes. I stay, tidying loose tack, running a brush over Red Ledger one more time.
I do need to talk with Harrison about nailing down Red Ledger’s diet and supplements. I’ll wait. I’m not going to call him. He’s probably very busy with an entire ranch. Not today. I’m patient. I’ve always been.
I just don’t like realizing how much easier it is to wait for a horse than it is to wait for a man.
There’s something about Harrison that I really like.
Chapter 9
Harrison
Imake the drive before the sun’s fully decided what it wants to be. This time, I don’t guess about the coffee. I pull over on the shoulder just past the last stretch of open land and text her.
Me: I’m picking up real coffee. What’s your flavor?
There’s a pause long enough for me to wonder if I crossed a line. Then my phone buzzes.
Nicole: Anything but vanilla. Surprise me.
I let myself smile as I steer into the drive-thru and order. When I pull into the stable lot, I park fairly close today. Must be slow. The carrier’s warm in my hand. Coffee is a small thing, but it feels like an offering.
Nicole stands near the tack room door, helmet tucked under one arm, riding pants fitted close enough to make my brain stall for a second too long. Dark, second-skin tight, every curve unapologetically present. It’s not provocative. It’s practicalfor what she does. That somehow makes it worse. I force my eyes back to her face.
“Morning,” I say.
