Page 37 of Bucked By Love

The Belleflower Summer Fair is clattering with activity.

Calypso and I hide away in the stables. This has always been my safe space. The place where I meditate, turn inward, and go through my steps over and over and over in my head. I imagine there’s a board of switches inside of me, and I’m flicking each and every one of them off. I don’t have time for anything other than one, simple objective:

Win.

An objective that seemed so important all my life now seems so far out of reach.

I’ve outgrown the Junior Division. I’ll be riding with the adult dressage performers later this afternoon. But I linger in the stables early and watch the young girls scramble around me to get ready for their show.

I’ve never paid attention to the other people in the stable. I knew watching them would freak me out, so I always made a point to turn inward.

Not today.

For the first time, I look—really look—at the girls around me.

They’re young—teenagers. It’s amazing how young they look to me now. Small girls with frantic, wide eyes. With hair tied back in painfully tight braids. With their shirts that button all the way to their throats. I watch as they pace. Avoid eye contact with each other. Pretty, perfect girls, all looking half sick with anxiety.

And I think:

For what?

Why is this so important?

It was never about the money for me—the grants and the funds awarded to Belleflower Queens. It wasn’t about the fame, either—seeing my face plastered around town, riding the float down Main Street.

It was, simply, about winning.

I had to win.

There was no other option.

But Daddy’s conversation with Arris made it clear. No matter how hard I work, or how much I sacrifice, I will never be the Belleflower Queen. I will never win. Not if Daddy has anything to say about it.

Calypso stomps her hooves. She’s getting impatient.

I quell her by running my fingers up her strong jaw, across her long neck. “Ready to give them a show, girl?”

She huffs in response.

I watch the girls filter in an out, replaced by adult riders who are only moderately better at hiding their anxiety. Finally, I hear:

“Next up, Claire Preacher!”

I mount Calypso, swinging my leg over. Together, we ride out of the barn at a gentle clip.

The sun is blinding out here. The fabric of my shirt doesn’t breathe and I can feel myself start to sweat under the unforgiving material.

I don’t hear the crowd or the announcer. Calypso and I know the motions. We’ve been here countless times before. I fix my spine and tighten my core.

The gates open and we enter the stadium. Calypso’s hooves are soft on the dusty ground below, the dirt packed deep from the thump of all the riders before us.

They’re announcing our moves, narrating as we move. Half-pass. Pirouette. Piaffe. I keep my arms tight on my body, my heels down, and my hands still.

Daddy’s voice pounds in my ears like a drum.

Back straight.

Chin up.

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