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"Black with a splash of milk. Like a functioning adult." I pour myself a mug and notice the full spread he's laid out beside the pot—vanilla creamer, sugar, and a small carton of Half & Half. I know I said I like milk, but this will do just fine, I think as I pour a splash into my coffee. I hadn't even thought to bring a coffee pot. I assumed these lots didn't have power hookups, but this one does. "Where did this coffee pot even come from?"

He's up and moving to the camp grill on the other end of the table, clicking the gas pilot to life, then pulling a carton of eggs from the cooler. "Ordered it on Prime. Had it shipped to the fairground office." He cracks two eggs onto the heated griddle without looking up. "That tent isn't exactly soundproof. You've been waking me up every morning muttering about instant coffee."

I stare at the back of his head. I had no idea Chace Walker could be that thoughtful.

"Figured it was going to be a long summer," he adds, laying bacon strips down beside the eggs, "if I had to listen to you piss and moan every single morning."

And there he is.

I snort. "Smart man." I tip my mug in his direction and head back to the camper for my hat. "Speaking of being woken up — if you're going to spend every night out doing God knows what with God knows who, you could stand to be a little quieter coming back into camp," I say it lightly so I don’t sound like I’m prying. I fully expect some sharp remark back, but instead he just looks at me and nods.

"Sure thing. Sorry about that." He looks back down at the grill.

Well, so much for getting any information out of him. Whatever, I've got plans today. Important ones. I'm not going to stand here trying to figure out Chace Walker.

Ten minutes later, I approach Dusty’s stall, and I know he’s heard me coming. He's got his head out over the door before I'm halfway down the row, ears forward, watching me approach with that expression of his that says he is excited, but not going to let me know just how excited he is to see me.

"Morning," I tell him, reaching in to rub his forehead.

He bumps my shoulder with his nose as if to say hello, and also, where's my treat?

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your treat as soon as you let me get you all set for the day.”

I start by giving him fresh water, even though it’s still full. I realized earlier this week his issue with the water is that it’s old. Such a princess he is. I fill his hay and grain, then begin working him over with my hands. I run them down each leg, feeling for heat or swelling. Anything that might not belong there. His legs are cool, tight, and perfect. That’s exactly what I want.

"Good boy," I tell him as I give him a few of the treats I've been hiding in my pocket.

I grab the brush from my kit and work the dust off his coat in long strokes. It’s more about contact than cleaning. He exhales through his nose and drops his head a little. I know this horse. I know every place he carries tension and every place he doesn't. I know the difference between his impatient ear flick and his happy one. I know that he likes the brush along his shoulder best, and only tolerates his flanks.

"We're going to have a good run tomorrow," I tell him quietly. "I need you to trust me on the third barrel. Don't second-guess me and I won't second-guess you."

He turns his head and looks at me with one large dark eye. He's listening. He always listens to me. It’s one of the things I love most about him. Most people see him as a grumpy, unpredictable horse. They just don’t know him as I do. He likes to be talked to. Full conversations. And to be pampered, of course.

I give him the last treat in my pocket and scratch the spot under his mane until his eyes close.

John Clark gave me this horse, and I am grateful every single day to have him. I think about that sometimes. About what it means to have been handed something that valuable by someone who didn't have to. Who looked at a stubborn seventeen-year-old girl and decided she was worth the risk of a horse like this. Every run we put in together is still me trying to prove he was right.

"Rest today," I tell Dusty. "Big day tomorrow."

When I get back to camp, all I can think about is grabbing my camera. I make a beeline for the camper, reaching just inside the door where it hangs from its hook. A second later I'm back outside, ready to lose myself behind the lens for a while.

I've been taking pictures since I was fourteen. It started with my dad's old digital camera. I'd shoot anything I could find around the ranch—fence lines, horses in the pasture, the way the morning light spilled across the barn roof. If it caught my eye, I probably had a picture of it somewhere.

The things most people walk past are the things I want to stop for. The old guy in the lawn chair at the edge of a campsite reading a paperback with a cup of coffee going cold beside him. A horse watching the world from a stall with its chin on the door. The way the fairground dust moves in the early morning light. Taking pictures helps loosen me up. It takes me out of my own head and puts me somewhere quieter.

I keep moving. I keep snapping pictures. A little girl in pigtails brushes down a paint pony three times her size, her tongue tucked between her teeth as she concentrates on every stroke.

Perfect. I lift my camera and snap the picture.

This is the part of rodeo life that never makes the highlight reels. Nobody posts the quiet moments. They want the run, the dirt flying, the buckle held overhead. I want the boots lined up outside a trailer door, the little girl with the pony, the dust drifting through a beam of morning light, because that's the life tucked between the eight-second rides and victory laps—the part people don't think to capture, and the real reason so many of us build our lives around this.

I'm crouched down getting an angle by a row of trailer hitches when someone shouts my name.

"Addie!"

I straighten up and turn around to find Shae heading down the gravel lane toward me, dressed in a green clinic polo with her red hair piled into a messy bun and a vet bag slung over one shoulder. She's grinning like a fool.

"Oh, my God!" I hurry to meet her, and we crash into a hug. "What are you doing here? I thought I wouldn't see you again until the last leg, at least."