Chapter 8
Nicole
I know he’s not coming today. I don’t check the window as often, but my awareness keeps drifting there anyway — like a bruise you don’t touch but can’t forget is there.
The space in the window stays empty, and I tell myself that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Distance is part of the process. For the horse and for me.
Red Ledger greets me with his head already lowered, ears flicking once before settling. He’s alert but not tight and bracing. That alone tells me yesterday mattered, even without an audience.
“Good boy,” I murmur, resting my palm against his shoulder.
He doesn’t flinch. We take our time as I gently place the halter on him and lead him out of the stall.
He stands proud and tall beside the tack room area and I secure him there.
“Let’s make you even more handsome,” I tell him as he allows me to begin grooming him. I use long strokes with the brush. We’re in no rush and I want him to not feel any tension from me. I take a deep breath and let it out.
He yields to the brush, shifting his weight so I can reach the itchy places by his withers. For a moment I let myself admire him. He has a hollow between his neck and shoulder. I notice the darker shadows under his copper coat. He’s a beautiful animal. He isn’t delicate, but honest and strong.
There’s a small scar down his left shoulder — the kind that never disappears, just grows around itself. I want to trace it with my hand, but I don’t. Instead, I work my way down his legs, cleaning the dust from his cannon bones.
He tolerates the moment when I lift his feet with no jerking. There's a part of me that's tempted to call Harrison and tell him that his colt is on the edge of becoming a partner, not a project. But I don’t.
I let the brush follow the lines of his body until his breathing changes, deeper now, and steadier. When I move behind him, he shifts his weight but doesn’t snap back into himself.
When I finish, I stand for a moment with my chin resting on the top rail, watching him flick his tail and stamp a fly off his hock. There are other horses in the barn, but none of them feel like a question I’m being asked to solve. Red Ledger’s the only one I want to spend hours with right now.
Jupiter Rising has trained with me for months now and is ready to race. I look forward to seeing what he can do. Progress doesn’t announce itself. But it reveals itself in so many small ways you have to watch and be attentive to.
I place a blanket over him and the saddle comes next.
This is where horses like him usually draw the line.
I lift it slowly, keeping my body angled away to let him see everything before it happens.
He tenses just a notch. But he doesn’t move off.
I wait. Count my breaths and give him time to respond if he wants to.
He exhales and that’s a positive sign. I set the saddle down.
Cinching it up, I pause with my hand flat against his side.
I can feel the ripple of his muscle and the faint pulse beneath my palm.
There’s stillness, and then the faintest shift as he blows out and relaxes into it.
The moment is so small, so easy to miss, but it doesn’t slip past me.
“That’s it,” I tell him softly. “Nothing’s changed.”
When I lead him into the riding pen, his gait is careful but willing. I mount without ceremony.
The first few strides are tentative, his body coiled like he’s waiting for a correction that doesn’t come. I keep my hands light, let him find his balance, let the rhythm settle before asking for anything more.
We walk. We pause. We walk again. That’s all. Five minutes in the saddle is plenty for today.
When I dismount, Red Ledger lowers his head and blows out a breath that feels like relief. I rest my forehead briefly against his neck, letting the heat of him soak in.
“See?” I whisper. “We can have fun together. I had fun.”
Back in the stable near the tack room, I loosen the girth and hang the saddle.
Harrison should’ve seen that. I don’t need him here as an audience. I know that. I’ve worked alone for a long time. I prefer it most days. Working alone with a horse means fewer variables and disappointments.
Still, I have to admit there’s a part of me that wants to see him in some strange, almost insistent way.
I picture him in the window, that stillness he carries like a discipline.
I like the way he listens without trying to fix things.
His attention feels deliberate when he looks at me and Red Ledger too.
I don’t like that I miss it. I don’t like that his absence sharpens my awareness instead of dulling it.
I rinse my hands at the sink and dry them slowly, grounding myself in routine. This is what I do. This is what works. Horses respond to consistency. People … less so.
I write up my notes for the day. Saddled without resistance.
Mounted calmly. Walked under saddle. Ended on a positive note.
I keep it professional, even though part of me wants to write more.
It was a good day for the colt and I’d like to mark the moment as something bigger than it is.
We made real improvement. Still, I would say his trust is fragile.
Red Ledger is learning that interacting with a caregiver and a rider can be pleasurable and fun. He’s learning to want to do things instead of feeling like he has to. I close the notebook and slide it into my bag.
The barn is quieter now, the other grooms and riders having finished their morning routines and drifted out for lunch or cigarettes. I stay, tidying loose tack, running a brush over Red Ledger one more time.
I do need to talk with Harrison about nailing down Red Ledger’s diet and supplements. I’ll wait. I’m not going to call him. He’s probably very busy with an entire ranch. Not today. I’m patient. I’ve always been.
I just don’t like realizing how much easier it is to wait for a horse than it is to wait for a man.
There’s something about Harrison that I really like.