“I didn’t say he was,” he replies, a little too quickly.
I do not push. Instead I lean in to adjust the reins, making it look like I am focused on the tack. It gives him a second to breathe. It gives me a second to breathe, too. When I straighten, he is watching my hands.
“You got him to stop fighting,” he says.
“I got him to stop expecting a fight.”
His eyes narrow like he is turning that over. “That sounds like the same thing.”
“Actually, it’s not.” I start walking toward the barn aisle. “One is strength. One is trust.”
He follows beside me, matching my pace. His shoulder stays a careful distance from mine. But he’s close enough that I can feel his body heat when the wind shifts.
I stop at the wash rack and loop the lead rope around the tie, the horse already stepping into place like this is familiar. I reach for the hose. Only then do I look at Harrison fully. He is close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough to see the faint line at the corner of his mouth where tension lives when he is not smiling.
I glance at Red Ledger, who flicks an ear toward me like he’s checking whether we’re still in conversation.
“Bonding comes first. After that, most horses want to please.”
Harrison nods slowly. He doesn’t pretend to understand more than he does. I like that about him.
“People think choice means no guidance,” I continue. “But horses don’t respond to freedom or force. They respond to clarity.”
“And consistency,” Harrison adds.
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly.”
I turn the water on, cool and steady, and start rinsing the horse’s legs.
“You have a wonderful horse here. It’s still early, but I see a lot of potential. Of course, if you race him … and I say that with a big emphasis on the word ‘if’ — it has to be about him, not you.”
Harrison’s mouth twitches. “Hard not to.”
I glance up sharply, and his expression shifts as if he realizes what he just implied. He recovers fast.
“What I mean is,” he says, voice smoother, “I’m the one writing the checks.”
I angle the hose away so water does not splash my boots. “And you don’t like writing them?”
His eyes narrow again. “I like results.”
“Then you’re going to like me,” I say calmly.
Harrison gulps and I watch his Adam’s apple move. For a moment, the air between us changes into something almost electric. He shifts his weight, like he suddenly does not know where to put his hands.
“You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“With so much certainty … like you know you’re right.”
I lift one shoulder. “Most of the time. Variables can always arise with situations, but yes, I’m certain about my skills.”
His stare holds mine, and I can see it happening behind his eyes. He is not just impressed. He is a little unsettled. He glances away first, as if he needs to break the contact before he does something stupid. When he looks back, his voice is lighter.
“I admit. I’m very impressed so far.”
He watches me for a moment, as if he wants to say something else. Something less safe. Instead he checks himself, and the shift is so clear I almost admire it.
