Page 33 of Brim Over Boot
I look over and give the man a slow wink, rather enjoying the way he bristles in response. “All’s fair in war, little Colt.”
Colton’s face settles into that scowl I’m so familiar with, his blue eyes promising retribution. With a muttered profanity, he starts to pace, his hands raking through his too-long hair.
I put the man out of my mind, proceeding to polish my horse’s hooves until they’re gleaming and show-ready.
Once done, I stand up and set down my things. “Done,” I announce.
There’s renewed clapping from the crowd, some shouted encouragement. Colton and I wait on the sidelines as the judges get out of their seats and approach.
“That was fucking dirty,” he hisses to me, his arms crossed in front of him, his gaze not on me but the judges.
“It was perfectly within the rules,” I say calmly. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it.”
He scoffs. “Bet your shoe work is shoddy.”
“It’s not,” I assure him.
“God, I hate you so much.”
I nearly snort. What’s new?
The judges head back to their table to mark their scores, and Colton starts pacing again. Remington catches up to him before long, slowing his brother down and giving his arm a squeeze. They exchange a few words, Colton’s movements jerky and agitated, Remington’s calm, before Colton nods.
I go wait by Walter.
“Nice job, kid,” he says as I approach.
I shrug. “He was quicker.”
“Eh,” my uncle says, waving his hand through the air. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
I don’t know about that, but I do know I did everything I could to present a perfect shoeing. Losing a quarter of the available points to Colton’s quick handling is going to hurt, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
When the judges wave us over to stand in front of our horses, the gathered crowd hushes.
“Timeliness,” Mr. Yadav calls out.
The judges hold up their indicators, a blue card for me, a red for Colton.
There are five red.
I hold in my groan, having known it was coming. Even so, it doesn’t feel good watching a tally of five added to the board below Colton’s name.
“Yes, Colt!” someone shouts. One of his brothers, I think.
Colton rubs his hands together, rocking on the balls of his feet as Mr. Yadav caps his marker. The crowd quiets again.
“Hoof trim,” the head judge calls out.
Another round of cards are held in the air. My eyes sweep over them quickly. Three blue and two red.Three blue.
I ease out a breath as Mr. Yadav adjusts our totals. Colton at seven. Me at three.
“God, I’m gonna throw up,” Colton mutters.
I know the feeling.
Mr. Yadav holds his hand for quiet again. “Shoe technique.”
