“Breathe,” Naomi called from the center of the ring. “You’re riding like you’re made of concrete.”
Izzy rested her forearms on the rail and watched. Her body remembered this rhythm—approach, takeoff, landing, recover. The gray gelding, Ghost, was honest and athletic, jumping with more scope than the low verticals required.
When the rider finally pulled up near the gate, her face was flushed with warmth and frustration. Ghost tossed his head, sensing his rider’s eagerness to be done.
“Walk him out,” Naomi commanded. “Don’t just park.”
The rider started a sloppy circle, fumbling with her reins as she tried to shove sweat-darkened hair out of her face. Ghost’s shoulder drifted toward the gate.
Izzy moved without thinking, her hand closing around the leather just below the bit, steadying the horse before he could push through.
“I’ve got him,” Izzy said softly.
The rider slid down, looking relieved. “Thanks. I have to—Naomi will kill me if I’m not back in two minutes.” She jogged toward the bathroom, leaving Izzy with the reins.
Across the way, in the round pen, Naomi was working a big young bay horse. Grant stood at one side, Cal at the other.
The bay bolted.
Naomi swore and ran. Grant lunged for the nearest gate and hit a wall of horseflesh as a gelding sidestepped into his path. Cal went for the opening—and missed by a yard.
The bay was already clear of the pen.
Head high. Eyes blown. Running for open space.
Running for the road.
Izzy didn’t think.
She moved.
The reins slid through her hand as she planted a foot on the rail and swung up in one motion. Leather met her palms. Her other foot found the stirrup as Ghost surged beneath her.
“Let’s go.”
They exploded forward.
Wind tore at her hair, ripped the breath from her lungs. The ground came fast and hard—stride, stride, stride—Ghost stretching out beneath her like he’d been waiting for it.
The bay was ahead.
Too fast. Too wild.
“Come on,” she murmured, low and steady, hands light. “Come on, stay with me.”
Ghost lengthened.
Closed the distance.
A flash of movement at her right?—
Steve.
The dog tore down the lane, all muscle and focus, one blue eye, one brown, locked on the bay.
“Stay with me, Stevie!”
He did.
