Chapter 2
Nicole
I don’t stop walking until the noise thins out. Tracks are loud places even when there’s no racing. I cut behind the maintenance shed where the ground dips into shade and the air cools, letting my shoulders settle.
That colt is still with me in my mind. I don’t know his name. He carries his body the way certain thoroughbreds do with too much thought behind every movement. He’s smart — the way his neck locked when the rider asked too much, the way he held his breath. Two years old, I’d guess. Maybe barely.
He didn’t blow up. That’s what most people would see. They’d call him manageable. Green. A project. But I felt the way his attention sharpened instead of scattered. I noticed the way he went quiet inside himself. That’s not calm. That’s control under strain.
Whoever owns that colt doesn’t handle him the best way. That part is obvious. But I didn’t get the sense he had been bullied.
I pause near the barn doors, listening to the sounds inside. A horse shifts. Someone laughs. A bucket clangs.
I move down the aisle, checking stall cards out of habit. My boots echo softly. I like barns. Horses can't hide what they're feeling there.
I’m halfway to the far end when I hear footsteps behind me.
I stop and turn. It’s the man I noticed earlier who was on the rails watching that same colt.
He might be the owner. Up close, he’s broader than he looked at the track.
He’s built like someone who doesn’t think about strength because it’s always been there.
His face is weathered in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with sun and wind.
He removes his cowboy hat revealing dark hair, a little messy but attractive in that way many women would want to touch — run their fingers through it. Not me.
We make eye contact and he’s got a smile that’s not at all casual. It’s not the slick kind you see at tracks so often. His smile is more of a rare kind that just says he’s confident and friendly.
“You work here?” he asks, not bothering with a greeting. His voice is deep and slow.
“I work here sometimes,” I say. “Freelance and usually under contract. I help with the horses that don’t want to be helped.”
He tilts his head, as if he’s mentally sorting what category I belong to. There’s a glimmer in his expression.
“That horse out there that you were watching -- the chestnut. What did you think of him? It seemed like you were getting a read on him.”
He says it like a compliment, but I feel it’s also a test of some kind. He wants to know my mind … and I don’t even know his name. But, I’ll answer his question.
“I know the type,” I tell him. “He’s not just a problem. He’s a solution, if allowed to solve it his way. You try to break him to fit a program, he’ll find the cracks and widen them.”
I wait to see if he’s the type to argue. Instead, he grins wide, the lines around his mouth deepening in a way that reveals dimples.
“He doesn’t like being made small,” the man responds. “Can’t blame him.”
I feel myself smile a little. “You into horse racing? Have horses?”
“I only own him. That’s a long story. I’m trying to do the right thing by him and me. Lot of money tied up in that colt.”
I notice he’s not afraid to admit it’s about the money. That’s rare, too.
“You want him to run?” I ask.
“Want him to run, yes. Want him to win, more. Want him to do it without hating it? That’s the real trick.”
I nod, noticing the outline of his shoulders shift under the flannel of his work shirt.
He seems like the kind of man who’s had to prove himself by shutting up and just doing in life.
He watches me with this directness that’s not quite challenging, but it doesn’t let you off the hook either.
I’m okay with that. I appreciate a straight conversation.
He asks me, “What’s your name?”
“Nicole Yazzie,” I answer.
He offers a hand. “Harrison Cole.”
Harrison’s grip is warm and dry, impossible to ignore.
He holds it for a second longer than normal.
I don’t flinch. His hand is big and feels a bit callused.
Natural, goes with the rest of his appearance.
He’s attractive in a way that could make me melt when I was younger.
At thirty-three, I don’t let myself become a puddle of moldable modeling clay for any man. He lets go and takes one step back.
Harrison looks at me, head tilted, like he’s taking a mental inventory. I try not to react, but I can feel his attention. It’s the same feeling I get from certain horses — a heavy, patient kind of watching, as if he’s waiting for me to move first.
“I keep a place over in barn three,” he says, “but I’m told your boss likes to have his hands on every new arrival for at least a week. Is that your boss? The old guy with the cane and a voice like a buzz saw?”
I nod. “He’s not my boss, but he likes to think he is.”
Harrison’s mouth twitches. “Seems like you’re not much for bosses.”
“I don’t mind authority,” I say. “Just don’t like the fake kind.”
He nods once, as if I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. He then points with his chin down the aisle.
“Let me buy you a coffee. Or whatever people who work horses drink after a morning like this.”
I hesitate. It’s not a pickup line, or if it is, he’s not trying. More like he’s inviting me to a meeting. I could say no, but I accept before I overthink.
“Coffee’s fine. I’ll meet you at the office area in the main barn. About twenty minutes?”
He nods, like he knew what my answer would be. I slip past him, feeling his gaze on the back of me the whole way down the aisle. I don’t look back, but I know he watches. I can feel him tracking me until I’m out of sight.
I duck into the tack room, looking for a spare set of riding gloves, just in case I need them. Then I make my way across the barn to the office area. The coffeemaker in here is a lie, but I run water through it anyway, setting it up for a fresh brew.
I brace my hands on the counter. In the racing business, men definitely outnumber women.
I don’t make a habit of noticing men. Not like that.
Not the way my body just reacted to meeting Harrison Cole.
Something about his broad shoulders, quiet voice, and the way his attention stayed fixed even when he stepped back.
Coffee is just coffee, I tell myself. But something tells me this isn’t.