I manage to put the pot down and he opens it to stir. It makes the whole kitchen smell amazing.
We eat at the small table by the window, where the last of the light's gone soft over the pasture. Riot's a dark shape near the fence line, head down in the grass like he’s perfectly content now.
The food is spectacular in the most annoying way. And Beck just smiles at me, like he knows.
Then I start thinking about the job, since that's what I'm here for, and I need the reminder.
"So what time do you usually work Riot?"
He shrugs. "Depends on the day. The weather. How he's been acting in the pasture. Sometimes it's morning. Sometimes it's the evening. Sometimes I get him out twice if he's wired."
"Okay, how long are sessions?"
"Until he seems done."
I stare at him.
"What’s that face for?"
"That's not a schedule."
"Never said it was."
"Beck."
"Ms. Dempsey." He's grinning again, but it's a different grin this time—softer, almost private, as if he's enjoying watching me try to wrangle his answer into information I can use.
"Do you do the same warm-up sequence every time?"
"Nope."
"Same cooldown?"
"Nope."
"Do you log his sessions?"
"In my head."
"Do you—" I stop, then start over. "How do you train a horse without a system?"
"I knew this horse when he was a wobbly little foal," he replies. "I started breaking him myself when he was three. I've been on his back more days than I haven't. I don't need a log to tell me what kind of mood he's in, or what he needs. I just look at him and know."
"So your method is vibes,” I deadpan.
He chuckles. “Pretty much.”
I huff. "I'm not saying you don't know what you're doing. You obviously do. I'm saying it wouldkillme to work that way."
“I’m sure it would,” he says, mid-bite. "Tell me howyoudo it."
I take a sip of tea and swallow. "I keep a daily journal on every horse I work with. Time of session, weather, footing, what we did, how he responded, what his energy was like. I do the same warm-up unless I have a reason not to. I run through achecklist before I get on. If something changes, I want to know what changed it, and I can't do that if I don't have a baseline."
"Are they color-coded?"
"...Excuse me?"
"The journals." He's leaning back in his chair now, one arm hooked over the back of it, watching me like he’s already got me pegged. "I bet they're color-coded."
