Friends With Horses: Briar Hill Farm, #2

By Natalie Keller Reinert

We can choose our friends. But we can't choose their horses...

 

When Grace Carter (Show Barn Blues) finds herself helping a friend in need, she turns to the Briar Hill Farm gang for help. As a summer oasis, Briar Hill sounds ideal: shade trees, breezes, and not too many boarders to stir things up. But Grace's old friend Suzie isn't winning any prizes for world's best farm guest. And neither is her horse, Gaucho.

 

While Grace is trying to contain Suzie at Briar Hill Farm, Alex Whitehall is dealing with a surprise guest of her own. She knows she was never cut out for motherhood, so how is she supposed to handle Alexander's niece for an entire summer? Better hope the girl likes horses...

 

Meanwhile, Pete and Jules are dealing with horse drama. Pete's new horse is stirring up trouble, right as Jules is doubling down on her efforts to make a huge return to the eventing scene. Pete is certain he can unlock the key to this unhappy horse's athletic potential, but Jules thinks he's wasting his time...and causing a distraction to her horses.

 

Return to Briar Hill Farm for another horse-filled adventure in Florida! Friends With Horses continues the sagas begun in Natalie Keller Reinert's popular Ocala Equestrians Collection, including The Eventing Series, The Alex & Alexander Series, Show Barn Blues, Ocala Horse Girls, and more. Start reading with any of these series or Foaling Season, Book One of Briar Hill Farm, and find out why Natalie Keller Reinert is a bestselling writer of equestrian fiction!
 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natalie Reinert
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201757410

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Grace

THERE WAS WAY too much laughter coming from the barn’s center aisle.

My forehead creased. I shouldn’t frown like that; I was getting lines on top of my lines. Nearly six decades in the sun, squinting at horses and riders, leaves its mark on a person’s face.

But ah, well. Why change now? I had developed a formidable frown; a riding coach’s most terrifying weapon, some students might say…

Giggling, shrieks of laughter, not all of it from children. Kennedy!

That girl was up to something; I could feel it in my bones.

I sighed and started walking, my frown settling into its accustomed angles. Time to be the boss.

Here’s the thing: I love Kennedy. She’s been a help to me in every way imaginable. I wouldn’t still have this farm without Kennedy’s imagination and boundless energy. But it has to be admitted: ever since that girl first walked into Seabreeze Equestrian Center, she’s been making me crazy. Sometimes in a good way, I’d grant you that. There was a reason I made her my riding programs manager, and I let her run wild with schemes from trail rides to ringside dinner parties. But she still needed to be watched. Closely. Kennedy might be in her early thirties, but she was still half a child.

And when I gave Kennedy free rein with a bunch of kids—like I was planning on doing this summer, while I went to Europe, what was I thinking?—I should expect all kinds of foolishness to go down.

This wasn’t a barn for foolishness. It was for riding and training and becoming a better equestrian. But when I reminded her of that, Kennedy just grinned and told me my serious attitude made me a classic fuddy-duddy.

Well, I wasn’t shaking a walking stick and muttering "Youths!" in an outraged way—not yet—even so, some standards had to be maintained. Seabreeze Equestrian Center was known for a certain level of discipline.

At least, it had been. Before I’d gone hand-in-glove with the neighboring theme parks and started offering entertainment alongside the usual boarding, training, and lessons business.

I crept down along of the barn’s main aisles, watched by interested horses in their stalls.

The laughter was coming from the wash-racks, concealed in the center of the barn. A cross-aisle bisected the big stable. Kennedy and her students had learned a long time ago that their antics in the center aisle were visible from my office high on a second floor overlooking the barn…and they also knew I’d been over at Mark’s barn, planning our coming trip to Europe.

When the cat’s away…

Another chorus of laughter went up to the distant rafters, and a young student squealed, "Okay, now let’s use the pink one!"

A few more steps to go, and I could peek around the corner. If they were playing innocently enough, that was fine. I’d go away and leave them alone. But if they were doing something ridiculous, which is what it sounded like they were doing—painting a pony’s haunches with washable paint again, that was my guess—I’d put a stop to it. She had a horse show with these kids in a week, for goodness’ sake…the ponies couldn’t have faded rainbows on their rumps.

Maybe Kennedy thought I wouldn’t find out because I’d be off in Germany inspecting horses, but please. A mother always knows.

And Seabreeze Equestrian Center was very much my child.

I took another step closer, my ears tuned to the giggling around the corner, ready to spring—and—

Brrrrrrrring!

My phone rang.

No, ringing isn’t a strong enough word for what my phone did.

It emitted this awful, earsplitting, ridiculous old-fashioned trill, like a big solid telephone set in a Doris Day picture. Kennedy had set this ringtone a few days ago when I’d complained I couldn’t hear the softer, more current tones, and I’d forgotten to change it back to something normal.

Currently, my phone was raising the dead from their graves. At the very least, horses were staring. So much for stealth.

Oh, for goodness’ sake… I groaned, tugging the phone from the tight pocket in my riding breeches. I silenced the ringer, but of course, the sound had already given me away.

Kennedy peered around the corner, her dark red hair flying in wild spirals around her face. She looked like a teenager. For a moment, I gazed at her with a motherly blend of wistfulness and chagrin. How could a thirty-something be so youthful? I was fairly certain I’d never been as young as she was right now.

Hey, boss, what’s up? she asked. I thought you were out—

I came back.

Your phone is buzzing.

Oh! I completely forgot— I held up a finger for silence and answered my phone. Mark? Hey, you. Did I leave something at your barn? I let my stern riding instructor’s voice soften when I spoke to Mark. He was my—um—well, I didn’t have a good word for him, really. Sometimes when pressed, I’d call him my boy-thing. Or just my thing.

Friends (well, mainly Kennedy) laughed at me about my refusal to use the word boyfriend, but seriously, the word gave me the ick. Sorry, but at fifty-odd years of age I didn’t particularly enjoy saying my boyfriend. I thought it sounded ridiculous the first time I used it around Mark, and even more so every time after. The results did not improve with repetition. Unlike, say, learning to give an automatic release while jumping a horse. Some things you stuck with until they worked out.

And some you just called your boy-thing.

He was Mark. That was good enough for me.

Hey, babe, Mark said warmly.

I had to admit I liked it when he called me babe. I was not too old to enjoy being considered a babe.

Any drama back at the riding academy?

Mark was always teasing me about my dozens of students and boarders. As the manager of the nearby theme park resort’s equine program, he had plenty of employee drama but no regular riders coming back day after day, tormenting me with their foolishness. He liked to say he enjoyed his customers because, after one visit, they went away and never came back.

I turned my back on Kennedy and walked back towards the main barn aisle. I was just trying to catch Kennedy in the act, I told him. I’m not sure what she’s up to, but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be doing it. My gray stallion Ivor watched me through his stall bars, pale as a ghost. I fluttered my fingers against his dark muzzle. Never a dull moment in the horse business.

She’s thirty-odd years old, Mark reminded me, a telltale chuckle in his voice. I could always tell when he was laughing at me. Somehow, I rarely minded. Shouldn’t you just trust she knows what she’s doing?

"Trust Kennedy?" I snorted. That way, madness lies. The last time I trusted her not to do something silly, she taught Madison Crawley how to ride that old circus horse of hers without a bridle. I’d come into the covered arena to set up jumps for the following day’s lessons and found thirteen-year-old Madison careening around the ring at a full gallop, her hands above her head, while Kennedy called, Just sit deep and breathe out! He’ll stop! Really!

It worked out okay, though, didn’t it? Mark asked. Madison got the horse under control. Sailor’s very well-trained. You know, I’ve always been jealous of Kennedy for that horse. He’d do great in my barn.

Mark’s world of theme park horses was a bizarre blend of fantasy and reality which never got easier to explain to other people in the show horse world.

It would have worked out, I continued, "if Madison didn’t then attempt to teach her horse to go without a bridle. Madison took her Thoroughbred cross out to the outdoor jumping ring without so much as a halter and found herself doing laps until the gelding tired himself out. She didn’t fall off, but the experience definitely shook her up. I sighed at the memory. Anyway, what’s up? I just left and I thought you were coming over for dinner. Can’t go ten minutes without hearing my dulcet tones?"

That’s only part of it. I’m still coming to dinner. I just— Mark sighed, and I heard the hesitation in his tone.

What’s wrong? I demanded. I was never big on starts and stops. Just get it out. Rip it off.

The Europe trip, he said. It’s—well—

What, it’s canceled? I forgot my fingers were within Ivor’s reach and he nipped the back of knuckles. I snatched my hand away and glared at the naughty stallion, but I was too dismayed to bother admonishing him. This trip had been all we’d talked about for the past month. Oh, no! I was so excited about that.

Not canceled, Mark said. Just—I can’t take you.

"What? But—but—well, why not?"

Yes, the European trip was for Mark’s work. But he had invited me on this trip as a consultant. It was all above-board. The big mouse house bosses had given him the chance to travel to several breeding farms in Ireland, Germany, and a few other countries to look for parade and carriage horses. As a consultant on the trip, I was an excellent choice, all romance aside. I’d been importing horses from Europe for my clients for years. But in all these decades of buying and selling, I’d never gone on an extended trip like this, visiting the old stud farms where horse breeds had been developed and refined over the centuries. It was a dream trip.

And now, it was just canceled?

It wasn’t my custom to make Mark feel bad about things, but I was too disappointed to say anything cheerful or pretend it was fine. It wasn’t fine. I’d organized my entire year around this trip. I had a farm of nearly fifty horses in my care, twice as many students, and a lot of moving parts. You didn’t just leave that to your staff without some serious planning.

Especially when one of your staff was Kennedy.

Higher-ups, Mark explained, sounding as glum as his company’s most famous stuffed donkey. "Somehow my vice president found out we were—involved—and she called me on the carpet and said it was strictly against company policy to work with a consultant when we were in a relationship."

"Oh, that company," I spat. Ivor flung back his head and retreated to a corner of his stall, unhappy with my tone. "It’s always something ridiculous with them! Don’t they know anything about equestrians? We’re all in relationships! Haven’t they ever heard of the O’Connors?"

I mean, you want to talk about a power couple. David and Karen O’Connor were Three-Day Eventing legends, and no one was worried about whether or not they slept together after a hard day being some of the best horse-people in the world. And you didn’t even have to go straight to Olympic history to find more examples. Look at Pete and Jules Morrison, for heaven’s sake. Absolutely killing it in multiple disciplines. Well, Jules had been oddly absent this year. I knew she’d had a baby, but that was six months ago already. I wondered what she was up to. And Pete had a book coming out this summer, in fact. About dressage, of all things—

I realized my mind was wandering and tried to focus on Mark.

I can assure you they’ve never heard of the O’Connors, he was saying, his tone dry as burnt toast.

Well, they’ve never heard of anything that matters outside of roller coasters and hotel occupancy rates, I snapped. Sometimes I was so tired of his corporate overlords I could just scream. We were all on good terms these days, but Mark’s higher-ups, as he called them, had tried to shut down the resort’s equine programs before and I didn’t trust them not to do it again. Are you still going? I demanded. "They didn’t cancel your ticket, did they?"

No—I mean yes, I’m still going. It’s just me and Benji now, he went on, naming one of his assistant managers. I feel bad about this, Grace.

Don’t feel bad, I sighed. Ivor heard my tone soften and came back to the stall bars, his eyes bright, ready to chew on my fingers again. I offered them up to his questing lips. If anything, I feel foolish.

Why would you?

Because I should have known your silly company would have a problem with me, I admitted. "They have a problem with everything." I did not think this was hyperbole. His corporation moved with the efficiency of a slug which had just hit a pool of seawater. And now I have an entire summer ahead of me to rearrange.

I’d planned to be gone for six weeks, and I’d put Kennedy and my trusted barn manager Anna in charge of the farm, from riding lessons and showing to horse care and employees. They were excited about it, too. The news that the boss lady was going to be around all summer, after all, would understandably annoy them.

Don’t give up your vacation, Mark argued. You’ve never taken a summer off. Do it anyway.

What will I do? I barked a rusty laugh. Go to the beach and read a book?

Is that such a bad idea?

I huffed. It’s certainly not for me.

We’ll think of something.

Look, I said, whatever we do, let’s not turn this into an episode of Save Grace’s Summer, okay? I’ll be fine. From around the corner, I heard more of that suspicious laughter. Listen, I need to go find out what Kennedy is doing, seriously.

I’m sure it’s fine.

Never assume anything with Kennedy around. Anna’s out riding, so there’s no one watching her. What time are you coming over for dinner?

Hmm, Mark said, as if this was a tough decision. He came over every Saturday night at seven o’clock. Mark loved a schedule. What are you making?

I’m microwaving a lasagna, I assured him. And I think I have garlic bread in the freezer. Absolutely nothing will be handmade.

I’ll bring the wine, said my long-suffering boy-thing. Go harass Kennedy now.

I pocketed my phone, waved goodbye to Ivor, and stalked around the barn aisle. Kennedy! I called, you better not be painting ponies again!

The chorus of giggles and laughter told me my instincts were right, as usual.

Kennedy raced around the corner, her hands a suspicious color of blue. Look, before you say anything, I checked the label this time and it will absolutely wash out before the show.

You’re a woman in her thirties, I reminded her. When are you going to be the grown-up in the barn?

While you’re on vacation. Oh! Kennedy went on, rolling right over my attempt to tell her that the vacation was canceled, I forgot. Someone called the barn line for you. A Suzie? Suzie Flanagan? She said she knew you from like, a hundred years ago.

The news took me aback. Are you sure she said Suzie Flanagan and not— I searched my mind for my old friend Suzie’s married name, but it wasn’t coming to me. What did she want? I finished instead.

It was so weird, Kennedy told me, looking delighted. "She said, ‘Tell Grace, code word crackers.’ "

My god. Really? She said crackers?

What does it mean? Kennedy demanded, face still alight with fascination. She loved a good old-person drama. Is it a conspiracy?

Never you mind, I said, brushing her off. Go finish defacing my nice ponies.

I had to go call Suzie Flanagan immediately…in private.

CHAPTER TWO

Jules

TELL ME AGAIN why we’re doing this?

Pete’s voice was a rumble in his chest, a tickle against my ear. I tipped my head back against his shoulder and blinked at his strong chin. It was our conspiracy posture. We looked like we were embracing, like young lovebirds. But the truth was, we were just trying to speak in private.

For years, it had been just the two of us. Then the students came, but they went home at night. Now that we were married, parents, with a nanny? We were never alone.

Pete’s youthful cousin was standing nearby, watching six-month-old Jack pick up leaves and study them with blue-eyed wonder. We tried not to share our minor controversies with Gemma, although it could be hard. The house was very small. We didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Didn’t want to risk losing her. If Gemma didn’t watch Jack, Pete or I had to do it. And if we were minding Jack, we weren’t riding.

And if we weren’t riding, were we even alive?

So we behaved ourselves, and actually, life at Briar Hill Farm could be pretty darned serene.

Although sometimes, I missed having our arguments at the top of my lungs. I’d never really been one for hiding my feelings. Especially not from Pete. It could be frustrating to tamp all my energy down and pretend everything was okay.

Take the way I was feeling right now, for example. I’d like to put my hands on my hips and demand he tell me why he was acting so regretful about buying a horse that was his idea. Entirely his. I certainly didn’t tell him to buy out Gomez Peña’s share of Lion. And I wasn’t looking forward to having the horse on the farm anymore than he was. Didn’t we have enough trouble without adding a stallion to our lives?

Lion was a short nickname standing in for some complicated French name, perfect for a complicated French horse. In Europe, he might be royalty, but here in Florida, I just thought he was a plain old liver chestnut warmblood stallion with the personality of a viper. Okay, plain wasn’t the right word. He had a pale, shimmering mane and tail which put him into Barbie Dream Horse territory. But we were eventers, something Pete seemed to forget on a regular basis. We didn’t worry about looks. You couldn’t ride a pretty mane. You could depend on a strong hind end, a nicely sloping shoulder, and solid bone from knee to fetlock.

And yes, Pete was short on solid event horses right now, but that was because of Gomez Peña. So buying one of Gomez’s horses made absolutely no sense to me. I’d been pleased when Gomez closed up the Ocala farm and moved to San Diego. I’d thought, Finally, Pete can focus on eventing again. He’d been riding jumpers down in Ocala for too long. His time at home he spent on edits to his dressage book. It seemed like he was doing everything but think about horse trials and three-day events.

Which annoyed me. To be fair, everything annoyed me these days. I was going through something. But Pete’s decision to keep one of Gomez’s jumpers annoyed me in particular because I was trying to get back into the saddle and find my focus after Jack’s—uh—disruption to my old life. And if Pete wasn’t eventing seriously, how was I supposed to find my motivation?

But it had come roaring back with the start of summer, and I was ready to rule the cross-country course again. I wanted Pete at my side.

For all three phases. Dressage, cross-country, stadium jumping. Not just two out of three.

Was it demanding? Yes.

Was I demanding, as a general rule?

Absolutely.

Hey, he’d married me. He must be okay with it.

I had my sights set on Summerland Horse Trials in late August. Everyone in the eventing world was buzzing about the return of this event after a twenty-year hiatus. Legendary courses, beloved competitor parties, a prize list with tens of thousands of dollars in cash and goodies on the line—Summerland had my heart thudding from the moment I read about it. Even the August date didn’t slow me down, and I normally refused to event in July and August, when the Florida summer was at its most intense.

It was just unmissable, if only for the awards. In eventing, you often competed for nothing more than a pretty ribbon and a sense of accomplishment. At Summerland, the winners were going home with new saddles, six-month supplies of feed, supplements, a moped—who didn’t want to win a moped?—and the media attention that came with high-dollar events and the return of a classic venue.

I decided the moment I saw the announcement: I was not missing Summerland. It was the perfect goal, the big shining diamond I needed to keep my zany postpartum brain on track.

So I needed to focus on riding, riding, riding. Getting some projects going, and getting Mickey, my upper-level horse, back in form to go out at Preliminary. Low for both of us, but a perfect fresh start after so much time away. We’d bump up to Intermediate before the New Year, get a few courses under our belts, run a three-day event…the best years of my big gray’s competitive career were upon us, and I wasn’t going to waste a moment.

Having Pete around all the time, to help out with not just the complexities of running our farm, but also the daily stress of intensive training for the upper levels, would be a huge help.

But no, apparently he needed a stallion as a project. A roaring, trumpeting, head-case of a stallion who had failed to make it as a show jumper already. And why was he a failure?

Because he’s crazy, I said.

Because he’s misunderstood, Pete insisted.

But Pete didn’t understand Lion anymore than anyone else, so what difference did it make? He’d already been riding him in Ocala.

A simple change of scenery wasn’t going to help. Briar Hill Farm was no sanitarium for deranged stallions. We had more than our fair share of mares on the property as it was—I was boarding broodmares for one of my students’ father, Clayton Spencer, and I had two mares with foals at their sides, in addition to Pete’s retired mare, Regina.

Lion was going to want to eat them up.

We looked at the empty driveway where the horse van would appear. Momentarily, if the shipping company’s stellar on-time rating was to be believed.

You can get him gelded, I said, stepping away from Pete. Something about the word gelded didn’t go with cuddling.

Pete sighed. He could be worth a lot as a breeding stallion.

His constant argument.

Could, could, could. I couldn’t keep the mocking tone from my voice. "When have we ever eaten on could, Pete? If you’re so high on his breeding, send him to a clinic, let them jump him on a dummy and collect him, freeze the semen for later, and leave his balls at the door on the way out."

Pete winced, like I was talking about his balls. I think we can turn him around without going that far.

Fine, I sighed. But leave me out of it. I have enough trouble without Studly McStudface waving his dick around my mares.

I heard Gemma giggle, and I sighed with regret. I should really refine my language before Jack started picking up all kinds of words I didn’t need him repeating in front of clients. Having a cute baby could be good for business, but I doubted a swearing toddler would sell more horses.

Leaves crunched beneath boots on the driveway behind us, and I turned to see Lindsay walking up. My student and summer-term barn manager had a unique look on this sultry June morning: her hair a violet flame, dirt and alfalfa leaves ground into her cut-offs and tank top. Did you get into a fight with the hay delivery? I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Lindsay gave me her trademark grimace, which grew more intense by the day. She’d be an amazing punk singer. She’d terrify the entire club. Let’s just say the hay is where the hay needs to be, she informed me. And I tacked up Flyer. I figured you’d be riding him first today, since you did fitness work on Mickey yesterday. You can hack Mickey when it’s hotter, I figured. Or I can, if you want.

Oh, such perfect timing. I glanced at Pete. Can you wait for your terror stallion by yourself? My sweet little gelding needs to be ridden or he’ll fall asleep in the cross-ties.

Behind us, Gemma chuckled again. She was still waving leaves at Jack, still being the best little nanny in the world. I cast her a grateful look. She seemed to be half on my side on the Lion debate, although since she was Pete’s cousin, there was always the possibility she’d take his side in an argument. Another reason I tried to keep my discussions civil, as tough as this could be on me. If I was outnumbered on my own farm, I’d really lose my cool.

Pete made a grimace that was not as frightening as Lindsay’s, but still effectively let me know I’d gotten under his skin. I would prefer it, actually, he told me, the insult dropping effortlessly from his polite tone.

I loved him for it. No one else stood up to me. Well, Lindsay did, but she was like a little me, only worse.

Good, I replied. I can live a few more minutes without knowing Lion in person. I patted Pete on the arm as I walked away, so he knew I still loved him.

Because even if I was mad at him, even if everything he said currently made me want to pick a fight, that didn’t mean anything. These days, I was always mad about something. It was my ticked-off summer, I told people when they asked.

And people did ask! It was pretty obvious I was going through some sort of sour mood adjustment. Well, what about it? I’d behaved so well for the past few years. I was allowed to act out every now and then, wasn’t I?

After all, I had good reasons. There was the challenge of coming back to such a dangerous sport as a new mother, for one thing. There was the daily grind of bills to pay for another. Sure, everyone had that, but did everyone get pulled in every direction except towards their saddle—which in my world should have been the stand-in for a desk chair? My future success depended on my riding. This was no hobby.

Pete and I had moved our lives to this thatch of forest and overgrown pasture in hopes of finding some seclusion after the constant upheaval of running Alachua Eventing Co-op. But building this old cattle ranch into a private equestrian center took wheelbarrow loads of cash, and the only way to get it was to keep teaching and keep selling horses. I still worked at Alachua every day, and yet, even though I was around my students there each afternoon, people kept coming here.

That was not the intent of moving away from Alachua and handing the lovely house there, which would have fit three adults and a baby a lot better than our little cottage here, to my barn manager, Lacey.

The intent was to be left alone to work with our horses in private.

And yet, people kept coming.

Sometimes, I begged them not to. Everyone still came. It was like they enjoyed my company or something.

I know. I couldn’t explain it, either.

And it annoyed me.

I’d had a rough winter. A difficult spring. Moving out here over the past year had been challenging—trying to get stalls and paddocks and a riding arena built was a lot when combined with having a baby and dealing with a smidge of postpartum depression. Just a smidge. A little touch of it. I was over it now. No longer sad, back in the saddle, leaving Jack with Gemma for impressively long stretches of time—totally cured, thanks for asking. I was ready for a fantastic summer, and I didn’t know if I could have it.

I was just annoyed at everything and everyone.

It was the time lost, I knew. Deep down, I understood exactly what my brain was raging about. A year out of competition, a year out of the limelight. A year behind my peers.

None of our years in the arena or out on the cross-country course were guaranteed. I didn’t want to lose a single day out there.

But I had a steep climb ahead of me. Pete and I were both operating with fewer than normal horses. It put a cramp in our style. After retiring Dynamo, selling Jim Dear, and several years focused on coaching at Alachua instead of bringing in prospects, I was down to just a handful of horses. Mickey, experienced and raring to go, remained my top hope for the big competitions this year. He was running at Intermediate now, a big level and the last stepping-stone to Advanced.

As long as Mickey stayed sound, he was enough horse to build anyone’s career on. I just needed to rebuild my team of up-and-comers, with a few sales horses in reserve, to bring in some extra money along the way. And Pete needed to do the same.

We had the space now, anyway. We’d built a beautiful shed-row barn with stalls aplenty, and the old cypress barn was being renovated at significant expense to hold farm equipment and the tons of hay and feed these horses went through every month. We just needed the horses.

Flyer was the first of what I hoped would be many. A good-looking Thoroughbred cross who had been out of work for a year, he had ribbons at Novice Level and was just looking for someone to put him back into training. I decided I was that someone. And so far, so good. I’d had the gelding two weeks, and he was doing basic dressage stuff, nothing bigger than a stretchy circle and some simple transitions, but I already liked his mind and his movement. Maybe he was a little too easy to ride, if that could be a thing, but I was sure he’d perk up with fitness.

I just had to keep reminding myself to go slowly. Smart, athletic horses were almost bad for me; they activated my ambitious lizard-brain and made me want to rush—longer works, higher fences, tougher questions. The horse would go along until suddenly they hit a wall, physical or mental or both, and then everything we’d worked on fell to pieces. I had to be so, so patient.

A year out of the ribbons wasn’t making that easy.

But that was okay. I’d spend this summer working on myself, too. Slow down, less finicky, fewer tantrums. That was the way forward.

And having Flyer ready to go Novice Level at Summerhall would round out the show nicely for me. I’d have three horses once I’d stolen Rogue back from Pete. I’d fixed the horse for him after their first disastrous few months together, then given him back—but lately, I’d decided I wanted him for myself and there was nothing Pete could do about it. Because Rogue wanted me, too. We