“Yes, or you could just say I work horses,” she says. “Problems usually belong to the people handling them.”
I nod, but I’m not completely sure where her thoughts are with this.
“You always freelance?” I ask.
“Mostly,” she says. “I don’t stay where I can’t control the process.”
I make a mental note that she likes to be in charge and she does not apologize for it. She simply states it like a boundary she’s already tested.
“I respect that,” I say.
She studies my face, like she’s deciding whether that’s true.
“What about you?” she asks. “You don’t look like a man who planned on hanging out at a training track.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “I didn’t.”
She waits for a better answer, not pushing or filling the space even with another question. That’s when I decide to give her something … just not everything.
“I inherited him,” I say. “Sort of.”
Her brow lifts slightly with interest.
“That’s a long story,” I add. “Short version is I didn’t go looking for a thoroughbred, but I’ve got a lot of money tied up in one now.”
“At least you’re honest about that part,” she says.
“I try to be,” I reply. “Doesn’t always help.”
She takes another sip of the coffee like it might improve if she gives it time.
“Does your thoroughbred have a name?” she asks.
I laugh before I can stop myself. “Yeah.”
She smiles. “What is it?”
“Red Ledger. Guess that should’ve been a warning.”
Her gaze drifts past me in thought, staring into space. She’s looking past my shoulder, like she’s already seeing the horse again.
“That’s quite a name,” she says carefully.
“Breeding people love names like that,” I add.
She looks back at me then, something unreadable passing through her eyes.
“Horses aren’t ledgers,” she says. I don’t sense any harshness in her tone. She’s just calling it in a factual way.
“Maybe not. But I’m learning they can be costly. I’d like to see this one earn his keep … without breaking himself in the process.”
She sets her cup down and leans forward slightly, forearms resting on her thighs. Her stare at me now is intense with caramel brown eyes. The shortened space between us feels different, like she’s truly taking an interest in this horse’s situation and story.
“I’d work with him,” she says.
I blink. “You would?”
“Yes. I don’t promise outcomes,” she continues. “I don’t rush timelines. And I don’t answer to anyone who thinks pressure fixes everything.”
