Page 51 of A Photo Finish
I stay here on the mat, trying to get my bearings and figure out what the hell just happened. He didn’t seem hung up enough on Hilary to be pining for her to this extent. In fact, he didn’t seem to like her at all. But . . .years?
What the hell am I missing?
* * *
My cast is finally off.The follow up x-rays were all clear, and the first thing I did after getting that go ahead was march over to Billie’s house and get on DD.
I wanted to gallop.
To feel the wind against my cheeks and have my shirt billow out behind me as I hunch down over a horse’s back. To let the rhythm of his hooves and strong legs move beneath me like the drumbeat that gets stuck in your head. The beat I’ve been marching to since I was a little girl.
I’ve been good. Rule abiding. I stayed off the horses, even though I didn’t want to. God knows there are plenty of riders out there who wouldn’t have. Without Billie and Cole in my face, I probably wouldn’t have either.
So, I went out for a breeze around the practice track. And now I can’t stop grinning. Or wanting to ride. I would get on every horse in that barn all night long if I could. Who cares about Cole Harding licking my chest when there are horses to ride? Who cares about the brush of his stubble or the sound of his ragged breath? Who cares about the fact I let my hands wander in the shower while I recalled it?
Not. Me.
Now I have agoodreason to avoid him. I can officially move back into my apartment. I can drive again! My first race back is in a couple of days! I can finally get my career back on track and stop obsessing over a man who is complicated beyond what I’m equipped to handle.
He’s not my project—Pipsqueak is. And I’m determined to get ahead with her as well. I pull my old Volkswagen Golf up to the farmhouse, feeling light for the first time in weeks. Like I have direction. That’s what horses are for me. Purpose. There’s no finish line. It’s never good enough. There’s always more. After each line I cross, I just want to keep pushing harder toward the next one, the next horse, the next win—it’sconsuming.
When I step out of the car, Pippy—sweet thing that she is—whinnies her hello at me. I pull my favorite saddle out of the back seat and walk to her fence, slinging it over the top board to rest.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur as she speed walks toward me, her dainty little head swinging with each enthusiastic step.
Once she’s close enough, I glide my hands over her cheek bones, one on each side, and plant a big loud kiss on the tip of her nose. Her soft lips flap around near my neck as she does whatever this is. With most horses, I’d think this might lead to a quick nibble. But not Pipsqueak. With her it almost seems like a gentle kiss.
“You’re a little weirdo, you know that?” I run my hand down her neck to give her withers a quick scratch, right at the base of her mane. She stretches her neck out and twists her head, enjoyment written all over her. “That’s the spot, huh?”
I chuckle at how expressive she is. And as I stand back and take her in, I can’t help but notice how different she’s looking in just a few weeks. She’s shed her spring coat, and as I suspected, is getting that bronze shimmer her coloring lends itself to. I’ve pulled her mane to a perfect straight line down her neck, and she has her first pair of horseshoes on. The farrier had fascinated her. All the smoke, all the noises—none of it phased her.
I can’t tell if she’s goofy or just totally bombproof. She might not have the regular competitive edge we look for in a racehorse. That eye-of-the-tiger vibe. But only time will tell.
Maybe she’s smarter than I’m giving her credit for. Maybe she’s an evil genius. After all, she brought Cole around. He thinks he’s playing it cool, but I’ve seen him. I don’t know what kind of special operator he was, but I think he’s out of practice because I haven’t missed that he throws her a couple flakes of hay every morning before doing some sort of jailyard workout in the driveway with tires and bricks.
I know he keeps a bag of carrots in his truck and gives her one after work every day. It’s no wonder she practically runs to the gate when he pulls up. I’ve even spied him late at night, leaned up against her fence, holding a rubber feed tub full of the omega rich feed I’ve been giving her, stroking her forelock while she chows down.
Basically, the man who swore he doesn’t like horses—and who said he wanted nothing to do with Pippy—is feeding her three times a day. And try as I might to not find it endearing, I do.God, I really do. It makes my chest pinch and my core throb. That little bay filly has softened him up, and I’d be lying if it didn’t almost make me jealous.
Things have beenawkwardsince our last workout. Friendly, but strained. Bordering on sad. The way he looks at me, talks to me . . . it’s different.
I shake my head. I’ve never been boy crazy. Horse crazy, yes. But boy crazy? Nah. And I will not start now. Especially not with one so impossible to break through to.
I turn to grab the saddle and look at her. “What do you say, Pippy? You ready to take your maiden voyage?”
I swear she bobs her head in response, and I roll my eyes as I get to tacking her up. She’s been the easiest horse I’ve ever started, so far. Even at home in Chestnut Springs as a kid, I worked with young horses on my family’s ranch, and not a single horse haseverbeen as easy as Pipsqueak.
I cinch the girth, and she stands happily in place. She’s not even tied up. Plenty of horses would walk away, but not her.
I’ve spent the last several days laying across her back with my stomach on the saddle so I could easily slide down if things went sideways. But she hasn’t flinched. I think I even noticed her eyes flutter shut one time when I stayed there a bit longer, just to see what she’d do.
Fall asleep is apparently it.
So here I am, sliding the metal bit into her mouth—another thing that didn’t phase her at all—ready to get on an unbroken two-year-old with a freshly healed leg and no one here to help. At the back of my mind, I know it’s not the smartest idea, but it feels right. It feels like my moment to revel in freedom.
The sun is setting, the birds are chirping, and the cool mineral breeze off the river feels refreshing after an unseasonably hot day. I realize I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. I have the perfect amount of distance from my dad and brothers—who I love but were smothering me. I have the job I’ve always dreamed of. Friends. My independence. Mybody. Something I will never take for granted again. Just being able to walk barefoot is such a gift, such a blessing.
I lift my boot into the iron hanging down Pippy’s side, pressing down onto it twice to be sure that she’s prepared for me. And then slowly, so slowly, I lean across her and swing my leg over her back, letting myself sit on the leather seat of the saddle. Her ears flick out to the side, like a little donkey, and I feel her back go slightly tense as I settle into the seat.
