Page 32 of Brim Over Boot
“All good,” I say.
Mr. Yadav nods. “All right then. Let’s get this Shoein’ started. Take your places and we’ll bring out the horses. Oh, and boys?” He pauses, gracing us with a smile. “Have fun.”
Colton and I turn in tandem, heading over to the area set up for us. I can feel the man’s glare on the side of my head, and when I continue to ignore it, Colton huffs.
As Colton checks the tools in his bag—we each brought our own—I tug off my jacket. I toss it aside before turning back, finding Colton’s gaze wandering down my exposed arms before he quickly looks away.
The creak of the horse trailer door pulls our attention. The animals are led out one at a time, both Quarter Horses, both seeming nonplussed by the crowd and the steady stream of noise and chatter. I eye the one brought my way, holding out my hand as soon as she’s close enough. She gives me a huffing sniff as the attendant ties her lead to a pole.
“Hey, girl,” I say softly, running my hand up her nose. “You and me today, all right?”
Her big eyes watch me calmly.
Testing the waters, I glide my hand over her flank and down her leg, giving it a tug. She lifts her foot easily—a great sign—and I let her go, rubbing her neck.
We’re given just a minute to get acquainted with our horses, and then Mr. Yadav introduces us to the crowd with a short speech about the history of the Darling Shoein’. It’s warming up enough that I’m grateful I put on a t-shirt today and not something heavier. The folks gathered listen raptly, the excitement in the air palpable.
It’s been a long time since our townsfolk have seen this. Many of them, myself included, never have.
When Mr. Yadav draws to a close, he waves Colton and me in.
“All right, gentlemen. Let’s shake on it, and then we’ll begin.”
Colton’s grip is tight when my hand meets his. He tries his best to crush the bones in my fingers. And, honestly, I do the same. Our eyes hold. Neither of us gives ground. Icy, icy blue stares back at me.
The word is given, and we let go. It’s on.
I don’t hear the crowd as I race to my horse. Don’t even notice Colton. I focus on my work, settling into the familiar rhythm with a single-minded focus. Luckily, my horse doesn’t put up a single fuss as I make quick work of pulling off her shoes, but I position myself carefully each time nonetheless should she decide to twist away. Before tossing the shoes to the side, I check the shape of each, committing the unique curves to memory.
Trimming her hooves is a swift process. They’re in good condition, just needing the sort of routine clip I could do in my sleep. I’m careful not to take too much dead sole off, since the depth is already shallower than I’d prefer. Once her hooves are as clean and even as they’ll get, I rush to the box of ready-made horseshoes.
An anvil is set up for shaping, and I make quick work of it. A handful of hammer strikes to each curve of metal creates the shape I need. I grab a box of nails afterward and head back. After checking each shoe against her hoof, I hammer them into place, only needing to go back to the anvil once for a correction. I’m feeling rather proud of myself when I hear a swell from the crowd.
I glance over, finding Colton’s horse nearly finished. He’s down to rasping the outsides of her hooves.
Fuck.
It’s a race against time—and the man beside me—to crimp my nails and finish. My pulse is galloping away, the cheering from the crowd muddled in with the sound of my own breaths.
I’m so close.Soclose.
I don’t make it in time.
From the corner of my eye, I see Colton set down his rasp and stand. He steps away from his horse, hands in the air as he calls out, “Done.”
There’s enthusiastic clapping and hooting from the crowd, and I curse inside my own head, slowing right the fuck down. I wanted to finish first, of course, but now that Colton won in speed, I need to be strategic. I can’t gain those points back, but I can still beat him in overall aesthetics.
I take my time smoothing the outside of each hoof and adding a perfect hem along the edge of the shoes. My pulse steadies as I work, and I tune out the noise of the crowd.
As well as the eyes of my competition.
Knowing I’ve done all I can with brute force, I pull out the only thing that might put me ahead. The polish.
“What the fuck?” Colton says in shock. “What are you doing? That’s not…that’s not necessary.”
“No interference,” one of the judges calls as Colton takes a step my way.
He steps right back, growling low in his throat.
