The ditch came up fast—a jagged slice of red clay and briar where the pasture dropped toward the drive.
The bay saw it too late.
He faltered—one step, half a decision?—
If he hit it wrong, he’d break.
Don’t think. Ride.
Izzy shifted her weight, angling Ghost.
“Now.”
She felt it—the gather, the coil?—
Then they were airborne.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. No sound. No ground. Just the stretch of muscle beneath her and the rush of blood in her ears. For the first time in years, she felt like the girl who used to live for this—before trainers and trophies and everything that came after.
They cleared it.
Landed hard and clean on the far side.
Ahead now.
Inside the bay’s line.
Izzy sat up, turned her shoulders, and put her leg on—just enough to block the path forward.
The bay skidded, checked?—
And tried to bolt left.
Steve cut him off.
A blur of fur and teeth and instinct, darting low, barking sharp and precise—forcing the bay back where she needed him.
“Good boy!”
They had him.
Back toward the pasture.
Back toward the barn.
Izzy didn’t force it—just shaped it, held the line, steady pressure, steady voice.
“Easy… easy…”
Ghost held.
The bay’s run burned off in stages—panic, then speed, then that wild edge softening, step by step.
By the time they reached the field above the barn, it was only a hard canter.
Naomi was there.
Line ready.
