"That's it," Eli says quietly.
I adjust, try again, slower this time, less force, more intention. The colt hesitates, then gives me a half step of what I'm asking for. My mouth curves before I can stop it.
Eli moves closer, boots crunching softly in the dirt. "You don't need to crowd him," he says. "Just be clear."
I nod, eyes still on the colt. "I know."
"I know you do."
The colt spooks again, smaller this time, more uncertainty than defiance. I shift to correct him, but my footing slips on loose dirt. For half a second, everything tilts.
Eli's hand comes to my waist without hesitation. Solid. Grounding. Another hand catches my arm, steadying me before I even fully stumble. It's brief. Practical. Exactly what it needs to be.
"Got you," he says.
I regain my balance and straighten, pulse loud in my ears. I turn my head, meet his eyes.
We hold.
Just a second too long for it to be nothing.
Eli lets go first, hands dropping back to his sides like they were never there. The space between us resets, but the heat doesn't disappear. It lingers, low and quiet, tucked under the work waiting to be done.
I swallow and refocus, guiding the colt through the movement again. This time, he follows through fully. Clean. Responsive.
I exhale, something loosening in my chest. Progress. Real progress.
An image forms without effort. Trailers in the drive again. Horses in the paddocks that aren't mine. Riders coming in from out of town. Lessons. Training. The steady, patient work my dad built this place on—not flashy, but reliable. Profitable.
I work the colt through another pass, then another, confidence threading back into my hands. When I glance over, Eli iswatching me now, not the horse. His expression is unreadable, but there's something settled in it. Something like recognition.
He doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
He sees it in the way I move. In the way I don't rush. In the way I stay with the colt even when it's hard.
Action, not promise.
We work the colt like that for the next hour.
Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But together.
I settle into the rhythm of it, the quiet exchange of pressure and release, correction and reward. Eli doesn't crowd me. He circles when needed, steps in only when something small could turn into something wrong. A reminder to soften my hands. A murmur to wait half a beat longer. Each adjustment lands cleanly, not as instruction but as confirmation of things I already know.
The colt responds. Slowly at first. Then with more consistency. His steps even out, ears less restless, attention lingering where it had skittered before. I feel it in my hands, in the way his movement starts to flow instead of fight.
It feels good.
Not just the progress. The doing. The steadiness of it. The way my body remembers before my doubts can interfere. Sweat runs down my spine. Dust coats my boots. Purpose settles in my chest like something reclaimed.
By the time we finish, the colt is calmer, head lower, breath steady. I lead him back to the barn, unsaddle with practicedmotions, muscles easing as routine takes over. I run a curry over his coat until the dust lifts and his skin ripples beneath it. Check his legs. Pick out each hoof carefully, tapping stones loose, brushing shavings away.
I lead him into his stall, spread fresh shavings, fluff the hay, top off the water. He lowers his head immediately, content enough to eat.
Routine. Familiar. Grounding.
I latch the stall door and lean back against the rail, my breathing slowing, the echo of work still humming through me. Eli stands a few feet away, arms resting on the top board, watching the colt settle like he's checking more than just the horse.
