I wait until the colt is cooled out and walked. The others filter out one by one, until it’s only me, the horse and the echo of whatever just happened. I stand there a while, hands on hips, hat shading my eyes from the noon burn. Red Ledger shifts in the crossties, ears pricked now in my direction.
The kid holding Ledger’s lead rope glances up at me, waiting for instruction. He’s new and barely out of high school. Ledger pins his ears at him, and the kid flinches, but tries to cover it by yanking the lead tighter. Ledger’s lip curls, upper teeth bared in a threat that looks almost like a smile. I make a note to talk to the kid about better handling.
“Bring him out to the paddock,” I instruct. The kid nods and leads Ledger out. The horse flicks his tail and falls in line, already forgetting the threat.
I loop through the barn, pretending I have paperwork to review or invoices to sign, but the truth is I want to know if she’s still here.
Red Ledger lifts his head, ears pricked toward the empty stretch of rail where she disappeared, like he’s waiting for her to come back and finish something she started.
I know the feeling. Want I feel toward a female doesn’t scare me. I’ve lived with it my whole life. What scares me is what happens when you let it turn into something it has no business becoming.
I adjust my hat and turn back toward the barn, already telling myself I don’t need her. That’s when Red Ledger snorts, sharp and knowing, like he doesn’t believe me either.
Chapter 2
Nicole
Idon’t stop walking until the noise thins out. Tracks are loud places even when there’s no racing. I cut behind the maintenance shed where the ground dips into shade and the air cools, letting my shoulders settle.
That colt is still with me in my mind. I don’t know his name. He carries his body the way certain thoroughbreds do with too much thought behind every movement. He’s smart — the way his neck locked when the rider asked too much, the way he held his breath. Two years old, I’d guess. Maybe barely.
He didn’t blow up. That’s what most people would see. They’d call him manageable. Green. A project. But I felt the way his attention sharpened instead of scattered. I noticed the way he went quiet inside himself. That’s not calm. That’s control under strain.
Whoever owns that colt doesn’t handle him the best way. That part is obvious. But I didn’t get the sense he had been bullied.
I pause near the barn doors, listening to the sounds inside. A horse shifts. Someone laughs. A bucket clangs.
I move down the aisle, checking stall cards out of habit. My boots echo softly. I like barns. Horses can't hide what they're feeling there.
I’m halfway to the far end when I hear footsteps behind me. I stop and turn. It’s the man I noticed earlier who was on the rails watching that same colt. He might be the owner. Up close, he’s broader than he looked at the track. He’s built like someone who doesn’t think about strength because it’s always been there. His face is weathered in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with sun and wind.
He removes his cowboy hat revealing dark hair, a little messy but attractive in that way many women would want to touch — run their fingers through it. Not me.
We make eye contact and he’s got a smile that’s not at all casual. It’s not the slick kind you see at tracks so often. His smile is more of a rare kind that just says he’s confident and friendly.
“You work here?” he asks, not bothering with a greeting. His voice is deep and slow.
“I work here sometimes,” I say. “Freelance and usually under contract. I help with the horses that don’t want to be helped.”
He tilts his head, as if he’s mentally sorting what category I belong to. There’s a glimmer in his expression.
“That horse out there that you were watching -- the chestnut. What did you think of him? It seemed like you were getting a read on him.”
He says it like a compliment, but I feel it’s also a test of some kind. He wants to know my mind … and I don’t even know his name. But, I’ll answer his question.
“I know the type,” I tell him. “He’s not just a problem. He’s a solution, if allowed to solve it his way. You try to break him to fit a program, he’ll find the cracks and widen them.”
I wait to see if he’s the type to argue. Instead, he grins wide, the lines around his mouth deepening in a way that reveals dimples.
“He doesn’t like being made small,” the man responds. “Can’t blame him.”
I feel myself smile a little. “You into horse racing? Have horses?”
“I only own him. That’s a long story. I’m trying to do the right thing by him and me. Lot of money tied up in that colt.”
I notice he’s not afraid to admit it’s about the money. That’s rare, too.
“You want him to run?” I ask.
