Page 27 of Wild Horses

After finding out he was really gone, I put on my best media face—a fake grin that doesn’t meet my eyes—and poured all my energy and attention into meeting my goals.

But instead of improving, my sessions got worse. I was singularly focused on my exercises but fervently so. I spent hours outside of PT working my arm. I pushed myself so hard I ended up losing ground rather than gaining it and re-injured my shoulder in mid-January. I had to beg Dr. Panter to sign off on my paperwork to be able to compete this week.

If she could see how I’m pushing my shoulder now, she’d have my head.

X nickers and nudges me. The warm sound pulls me from my memories. Sighing, I slip her a peppermint. “Thanks forbeing such a good listener. I promise tonight will go better.”Only because it can’t go worse.

I go through the grounding motions of getting X ready for the race: giving her one last brush down and then tacking her up. As I work, I talk to her, praising and assuring her that we’ve got this.

Once she’s ready, I slide the stall door open and guide her toward the warm-up area. As we walk, I avoid the eyes of those around me. I’m not in the mood for small talk, for false interest in how I’ve been, or for faux concern over the state of my practice runs. Though I wish my dad wasn’t in his seat, I could use a friendly face.

From my vantage point, I can see the stands, so I do a quick scan, looking for my dad. Even a wave from him would go a long way, but a flash of reddish-brown hair under the arena lights catches my eye.

Butterflies swarm my stomach at the thought it could be him. A pang of longing pounds in my chest as I study the mystery man. His back is to me, allowing me to take in the shoulders that are broad enough to belong to my Pretty Boy. But the shaggy hair, work clothes, and thicker build tell me it’s another flight of fancy on my part.

I wilt a little. Even after three months, I search for him everywhere I go. Each time a patient walked into the PT room, any time a fancy car pulled through the gates at Prairie Sky Equine, every time the door blew open at Stir-ups, I held my breath, hoping it was him. It was wishful thinking then, and it’s certainly wishful now. There’s a less than zero chance War Philips is in Lubbock, much less at the High Plains Stampede. And even if it was him, it’s not like he’d want to see me. That sobering thought pulls me back to reality.

Get over it, Laramie.You made the choice, and now you have to live with it.

Rolling my neck and cracking my knuckles, I push War and my regrets from my mind. I owe it to myself and to Xpresso to be here, be present. Turning back to my horse, I smile, a real one. “Alright, you boss bitch, let’s show them we’re back.”

Xpresso’s steps are sure when she enters the alley. I visualize the course one last time, mentally correcting the many, many mistakes I made earlier in the day. In my mind, X and I flow like water, floating around the turns, rushing through the straightaways. The way it should be.

When the gate handler calls my number, I inhale, letting the familiar scents settle over me. It’s been too long.Horsehair. Saddle oil. Dirt. Home.The last bit of tension in my shoulders melts away. This is where I belong.

At the sound of the buzzer, we burst forward like a bullet shot from a gun. I let years of muscle memory take over and trust X to do what needs to be done. We round the first barrel without problem. I subtly shift my weight, following the glide of X’s muscles as we sprint toward the next turn. The world around us fades to nothing. We aren’t perfect, but the connection between us, that silent bond we’ve honed over the years, comes roaring back.

It’s just Xpresso and me: a girl and her horse.

“Laramie, someone wants to speak with you.” My dad’s warm voice calls to me from outside the stable.

Without looking up, I say, “One sec, Dad.” I pat X once more, then slip her an apple. “You kicked ass tonight, lady.”

After all the disastrous run-throughs, the pain of months ofrehab, the regret of letting War go, we did it. It wasn’t our fastest time, but we qualified for night two.

I straighten my shirt, stomp some of the manure off my boots, and sigh. “I hope this isn’t a new potential sponsor. I’m not up to kissing ass tonight.”

X snorts in solidarity. Or at least that’s my interpretation.

Dusting off my hands, I slide the door closed behind me. “Who wants—” The words die in my throat. Standing before me is the man I glimpsed earlier. The one my heart jumped at, but my brain immediately dismissed. My breath catches in my lungs. It can’t be.

The reddish brown hair that was so neat now spills over the collar of his plaid flannel. Gone is the pricey watch, leaving a band of pale skin against his otherwise tan wrist. His broad shoulders still cut an imposing line, though his waist is less tapered than before. Daring to hope, I lift my gaze higher to his face. And though much of it hides under a messy beard, there’s no denying those honey-brown eyes.

It’s him.

Like a top in motion, everything spins, and all I manage is one strangled word. “War?”

He stares at me like I might disappear and then smiles. “Congratulations, Trouble.”

CHAPTER TEN

war

After storming out on my father, I debate my next steps for about four seconds. I could go back to Trail Creek or chase a long shot. Something spurs me toward the impossible. It reminds me of the same internal urging that prompted me to stand up for Tuesday, to tell my parents I was quitting, to say yes to a date with Laramie, and to walk out on my father tonight.

I’m learning to trust my instincts, and it isn’t the time to doubt myself.

So I drive the thirty minutes to the outskirts of Lubbock and the midsize arena hosting The High Plains Stampede, wondering if, on a scale of one to bat-crap bananas, what the chances are that Laramie is here. The practical side of me calculates the odds at just this side of finding out the moon is actually made of cheese.

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