Chapter 9
Harrison
I make the drive before the sun’s fully decided what it wants to be. This time, I don’t guess about the coffee. I pull over on the shoulder just past the last stretch of open land and text her.
Me: I’m picking up real coffee. What’s your flavor?
There’s a pause long enough for me to wonder if I crossed a line. Then my phone buzzes.
Nicole: Anything but vanilla. Surprise me.
I let myself smile as I steer into the drive-thru and order. When I pull into the stable lot, I park fairly close today. Must be slow. The carrier’s warm in my hand. Coffee is a small thing, but it feels like an offering.
Nicole stands near the tack room door, helmet tucked under one arm, riding pants fitted close enough to make my brain stall for a second too long.
Dark, second-skin tight, every curve unapologetically present.
It’s not provocative. It’s practical for what she does.
That somehow makes it worse. I force my eyes back to her face.
“Morning,” I say.
She glances at the cups, then at me. “Thank you for the coffee. What’s my flavor today?”
“Hazelnut,” I tell her. “Because it seemed like you’d want something a little off-center.”
Her lips curve, just at the corners. “You’re not wrong. Well, let me try it out,” she says, and takes the cup I hand her.
Our fingers brush once again. It’s brief and unavoidable. The contact lands like a pulse I don’t need but can’t ignore.
We sit on the bench by the tack room, steam curling up between us. The place smells like leather and hay. It’s a familiar scent that is probably absolute home to her.
“I wanted to talk about his diet,” she says, getting straight to it.
I nod and pull my phone out, scrolling. “This is what he’s on now.”
I hand it over. She reads quietly, brow faintly furrowed. It’s not disapproval, but assessing.
“We’ll drop this,” she says, tapping one supplement. “Too much heat. He doesn’t need it right now.”
“Okay.”
“And add magnesium,” she continues. “Not a lot. Just enough to help him process stress without dulling him.”
I listen to the way she speaks, the tone of her voice. She sounds certain and keeps it economical.
“Why?” I ask.
She looks up. “Because he’s not explosive. He’s guarded. Different problem.”
That makes sense. Nicole hands my phone back. “Everything else is fine. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
I don’t know why that matters so much.
“How was yesterday?” I ask.
She studies me for a second, coffee cradled in her hands.
“I’m not going to tell you what happened,” she says. “Not yet.”
My jaw tightens with anticipation.
“But,” she adds, “it was all good.”
I let out a breath of relief.
“If today goes the way I expect,” she continues, “you’ll see it for yourself.”
That’s it. No tease or promises from Nicole … just quiet confidence.
She stands and sets her cup aside, sliding the riding helmet on with practiced ease. I have to look away again when she moves — hips, legs on full display in those riding britches.
“Window?” I ask.
She nods. “Window.”
???
I take my place to watch, same spot as before. The difference is I’m ready this time. Coffee’s settled. Expectations dialed back. Nicole said I’d see it for myself if it happened. Still, she didn’t promise, but there was this quiet certainty in her voice.
Nicole steps out, reins loose in her hands, posture relaxed like she’s got all the time in the world. Red Ledger follows, and I feel it immediately — the change. His head is lower. His stride longer. There’s no jitter in the way his hooves hit the dirt.
He’s listening. She mounts smoothly, no hesitation, no tightening. The saddle settles. The colt flicks an ear back toward her, then forward again, like he’s checking in and filing it away.
They move off at a walk. I expect the tension he normally displays. It never comes.
Nicole keeps her hands light, barely there. She doesn’t micromanage him. Doesn’t correct what doesn’t need correcting. When Red Ledger hesitates, she doesn’t push. She waits and the waiting works.
Several minutes pass. They circle the pen, rhythm steady, the colt’s body loosening with every pass. When she asks for a transition, it’s subtle enough that I almost miss it, but Red Ledger doesn’t. He responds without protest or panic.
I’m watching trust between these two, built in real time. When she cues him into a canter, my breath catches. The horse’s movement isn’t flashy. It’s controlled.
The colt moves into it like he’s been waiting for permission. He’s not forcing speed, just moving in a balanced and willing way.
I’ve spent a lot of money trying to get that result. Nicole didn’t force it. She invited it.
They go another round, then another. When she brings him back down, Red Ledger doesn’t fight it. He comes willingly, blowing out a breath that fogs faintly in the cool air.
She pats his neck only once. I realize something then, watching them. Nicole isn’t training him to perform. She’s training him to trust what comes next.
My hopes for this colt nearly bolt out of me at this point. Because I know what it’s like to be pushed before you’re ready. To be handled like potential instead of reality. To learn that anticipation is safer than hope.
Nicole swings down and leads him toward the gate, her hand resting easy against his shoulder. Red Ledger follows like he’s chosen to, not because he has to.
Whatever she’s doing with that horse, it’s working. And whatever’s happening between us, whether I like it or not, is moving at the same pace. The feeling creeps up on me quietly. I know it’s not intentional. But it’s harder to walk away from by the minute.