He reaches out and gives the horse one last slow stroke down the neck. The horse leans into it like he recognizes respect. Then Harrison steps back. He pauses, gaze on me, and for a moment the hesitation shows.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
I lift my chin. “Oh, tomorrow. I have another horse I’ve trained that’s running in the third race. His name is Jupiter Rising. Most of my morning and early afternoon will be taken with him.”
Something in his expression tightens, and I don’t know why, but I feel it.
“I didn’t realize I had competition right now.”
I smile, wondering if there is a double meaning behind his words.
“Rest assured, I will get plenty of time in with Red Ledger.”
“I’ll be here,” he says. “For the race. Given your skills, maybe I should place a bet.”
He holds my gaze a few seconds too long. Then he turns and walks away. I don’t usually like being watched while I work. But I do like his company.
It’s not insecurity. It’s control. Early on, observation can change things. Owners want results too fast. Harrison doesn’t press, at least so far. I liked having him here today. More than I expected. More than I want to unpack right now.
After he’s gone, I make sure Red Ledger has everything he needs as I get him situated back in his stall.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, big boy. And your cowboy owner too.”
Chapter 11
Harrison
Idon’t usually dress for the track. Most days, it’s boots, denim, and whatever shirt doesn’t smell like hay or covered in dust. But this isn’t most days. Today, I pulled on dark jeans that actually fit right, a crisp button-down, and a jacket that signals money without trying too hard. No suit. I’m not that guy. But I’m not a ranch hand today either.
I slide my sunglasses on before I step through the gates of the track, letting the noise hit me all at once. There’s an undercurrent of conversations going on, along with race patrons silently studying racing programs. Most of all, I notice the sharp, electric smell of anticipation that always settles over a racetrack before the first race runs. This is where belief gets tested.
I grab a program and flip straight to the third race, barely glancing at the earlier listings. Jupiter Rising has long odds. Longer than most people would touch without a second thought. I huff a breath through my nose, not surprised.
I scan the paddock, the rail, and the walking ring. No sign of Nicole yet. I tell myself I’m just checking out of curiosity. The lie doesn’t sit well.
I place bets on the first three races that are modest, enough to stay interested without tempting fate. When the clerk hands me the slips, I fold them carefully and tuck them into my pocket.
I order a coffee and take my seat trackside, the sun cutting across the grandstand just enough to make the day feel sharp and alive. I lean back, watching the first race thunder past in a blur of color and muscle. The crowd roars. Someone curses. A group of women that appear to be here for a day out cheer too loud.
I notice everyone. But my attention keeps drifting back to the track entrance. By the time the second race finishes, the coffee is half gone and cold. I don’t order another. And I don’t have a winning ticket yet.
Race three is announced. That’s when I see her. Nicole emerges from the tunnel at the far end of the track, walking beside Jupiter Rising. The jockey sits astride the horse, focused and still. A handler keeps a steady grip on the lead. But Nicole is the one the horse keeps checking in with, ears flicking toward her as they move.
She’s wearing the horse’s colors. Tight-fitting riding pants, a windbreaker zipped just enough to be practical, but not enough to hide her curvy shape beneath. The fabric moves with her stride, confident and unhurried. There’s nothing flashy about her, but she still stirs something inside me. Somehow, that makes it worse.
I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees. The sunglasses suddenly feel like a necessity. Watching her here as more of a spectator — out in the open — hits different than seeing her at the barn.
Jupiter Rising tosses his head once, testing the air. Nicole says something to him, her hand brushing his neck just once. It must have been enough as the horse settles like he’s been waiting for that exact reassurance. She wasn’t kidding about bonding and trust.
The horse is a large thoroughbred that moves beautifully. I hear a couple of men nearby talking odds, dismissing him with the casual cruelty of gamblers who think they know everything. I don’t say a word.
Nicole walks him toward the gate, her posture calm and focused. She doesn’t look up at the crowd in the stands. She has no idea I’m here, watching, betting and rooting for this horse, Jupiter Rising, that’s not even mine.
That shouldn’t bother me. But it does. I want her to know I showed up for something that’s important to her.
The gates load. The handler steps away. Nicole lingers just long enough to give Jupiter Rising one last look. Then she steps back, already letting go of this unspoken connection she has with this animal.
That might be the hardest part to watch. I realize then that this isn’t about winning the race. It’s about watching someone do exactly what they’re meant to do — and knowing you had the sense to get out of the way when they need to do it.
