Chapter Sixteen
Matty asks if I’m sure about this for the tenth time.
We’re standing just off to the side of the drive, boots planted in the packed dirt, watching a sweet honey-colored pony carefully step down the ramp of a trailer with the Ironhorse logo emblazoned on the side.
The sun catches in her coat and turns it almost gold, like she’s been dipped in warm caramel.
She blinks slowly, calm as can be, ears flicking, but not pinned, not nervous. Just taking in her new surroundings.
I don’t look at Matty when I answer, “I’m not sure at all.” Because that’s the truth and because lying to her would be pointless. She’s always been able to read me like a book.
She sighs, crossing her arms as the handler passes the lead rope over to me.
“Thank you,” I say politely.
“You know you can still back out,” Matty says as we watch the trailer pull away.
I shake my head, already reaching to rub the pony’s neck, letting her smell me, letting her settle. “No. Contract’s signed.”
And my word is my word. Even if I did feel manipulated into agreeing.
After Waylon showed up here last week—unannounced, unapologetic, armed with an ill-spoken promise to a wide-eyed little girl and just enough guilt to make me fold—I had Matty draw up the contract and send it to Holland through Caison.
Waylon had joked that I should charge him triple, like that somehow made him backing me into a corner better.
I didn’t.
But I did charge him a premium.
Ruby is young. Very young. And training a child that age takes more time, more patience, more planning.
It means slow days and repetition and parents who need just as much coaching as their kids.
It means responsibility that sits heavily on my shoulders because I don’t want to disappoint a little girl or crush her spirit if barrel racing isn’t for her.
And now, whether I like it or not, I’ll be dealing with Waylon Ludlow at least three times a week.
Starting today.
I lead the pony toward the main barn instead of the boarding stable. She walks beside me without pulling, her head low, trusting. That alone tells me a lot. She’s been handled well. Loved even.
“I’m putting her in here,” I tell Matty. “She’ll be more comfortable with our horses.”
Matty nods. “I’m good with that.”
Inside the barn, the familiar sounds wrap around us—soft nickers, the shuffle of hooves, the creak of wood. I guide the pony into an empty stall between two of our calm, older horses. She sniffs the air, then lowers her head to investigate the fresh shavings.
I hang her halter and step back, studying her.
She’s small but solid, with kind eyes and a steady build. Perfect.
I can see exactly why Giles chose her for Ruby.
I leave her settled with hay and water and move on with the rest of my morning.
Abby, a fifteen-year-old show jumper, and her excitable bay, who has too much energy, are waiting for me in the arena. Two hours of flatwork and small fences later, and I’m re-centered.
By the time Priscilla arrives with Ruby, I’m ready.
I meet them in the driveway, wiping my hands on my jeans as Ruby hops out of the truck like she can’t wait another second.
She’s wearing the cutest pair of Carhartt coveralls over a long-sleeved tee, her boots dusty, her felt cowgirl hat perched proudly on her head.
The pink leather band around it catches the light.
Waylon went back and got the hat.
The thought causes something warm and dangerous to bloom in my chest.
Dammit.
I do not need to let my guard down when it comes to Waylon Ludlow.
“Shelby!” Ruby squeals, barreling into me with all the force her little body can manage.
I laugh and crouch to hug her back. “Hey there, cowgirl. I like the coveralls,” I say.
“Nana bought them for me,” she says proudly.
Priscilla smiles as she watches us. “She’s been talking about today nonstop all week.”
“That’s good. I like an enthusiastic student,” I say, standing.
“What’s ’thusiastic?” Ruby asks.
“It means eager and excited to learn,” Priscilla explains.
“Yes. I’m ready!” Ruby says, hopping up and down.
“Come on. Let’s go say hi to Grandma first,” I say, leading them to the main house.
Inside, Grandma is in the kitchen, three large honeydew melons lined up on the island like she’s been waiting for us. She looks up, and her face lights immediately.
“Hi, Priscilla,” Grandma greets. “And who do you have there?”
Priscilla helps Ruby onto one of the stools at the island.
“This is my granddaughter, Ruby,” Priscilla says. “Ruby, this is my friend Evelyn.”
“Hi,” Ruby says shyly.
“Well, would you look at you?” Grandma says, bending just enough to gently pinch Ruby’s cheek. “Aren’t you just precious?”
Ruby giggles, tipping her hat back. “I’m gonna ride my pony today.”
Grandma beams. “You are? Well, that sounds like a lot of fun.”
I glance at the melons and smile. “First, we have a job to do.”
I explain to Priscilla that we’re going to start by having Ruby help me scoop melon balls. When she asks why, I tell her the truth—that it helps young riders relax. Gives them something to do with their nervous energy and makes them feel like they’re helping.
Then I crouch beside Ruby. “We’re gonna make snacks for your pony.”
Ruby’s eyes widen. “For Honey?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Melons are safe and healthy. They help keep ponies hydrated, which is important. And they’re a little sweet, so they make good rewards for when Honey does a good job.”
Ruby nods solemnly, like this is very serious information. “Like Nana makes cookies when I’m good.”
“Yeah. Just like that. And since Honey isn’t a trained barrel horse yet,” I add, glancing at Priscilla, “we’ll use the melon to help lead her around the pattern.”
Grandma pours Priscilla a cup of tea, and the two of them watch as Ruby and I get to work. I show her how to hold the scoop, how to press just right. The melon balls come out uneven and tiny, but Ruby is careful and proud, placing each one into the baggies I’ll tuck into my hip pack.
By the time we’re done, she’s calm. Focused.
As we’re sealing the last baggie, the back door opens.
Priscilla looks up, startled. “Oh—”
Holland steps in, carrying a box nearly as big as Ruby. “Hope I’m not late.”
He lifts out a Double T youth barrel saddle set—pink crosses painted across it, turquoise horseshoes, Ruby’s name in curly letters stitched into the back. A pink helmet with sparkles follows.
Ruby loses her mind.
She gasps, then jumps up and down, then squeals so hard that she can barely breathe. “It’s PINK!”
Holland chuckles. “I couldn’t let my girl start new lessons without a saddle of her own.”
She throws her arms around his legs. “Thank you, Papa.”
I watch the old, pompous cowboy melt as he pats her back. Then he lets her drag him to help put it on Honey immediately.
Out at the barn, Holland assists with tacking up while I supervise. I let Ruby feed Honey a couple of melon balls first, then explain that treats usually come after work so the pony knows she did a good job.
We lead Honey out to the round pen, where Cabe set up three practice barrels earlier this morning. The dirt is freshly dragged, the barrels evenly spaced.
I warn them up front, “Today’s going to be boring to watch.”
Priscilla pulls out her phone, already snapping photos. “That’s okay.”
“We’re just walking the pattern,” I explain. “Letting Ruby and Honey get comfortable with each other.”
“They’re already comfortable,” Holland barks.
I let out a steady breath.
Lord, give me patience.
“Well, they’re in a new environment, and since Honey isn’t a barrel pony—”
“Holland, don’t try to tell Shelby how to do her job. Just watch quietly, or you can leave,” Priscilla demands.
I watch as Holland Ludlow—Boss Hog of Wildhaven, Wyoming—swallows his next argument and walks to the side, tail between his legs.
Priscilla’s gaze comes to me, and she smiles. “Go ahead, dear. We’ll just be over there, watching while you do your magic.”
They stand on the outside of the fence while I help Ruby into the saddle, adjusting her safety stirrups, checking the leathers. I tell her we’re going to go nice and slow. That she should breathe. That there’s no rush.
I take the lead rope and start us toward the first barrel.
Honey hesitates.
I unzip my hip pack and pull out a melon ball, holding it just ahead of her nose. She follows immediately. I repeat the same trick at the pocket of the next barrel.
Ruby is steady. Comfortable. Her posture is better than I expected.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her. “Nice and tall.”
She beams.
We finish the pattern once. Then again.
By the fifth time around, I hear boots on gravel.
I don’t look up.
I already know.
Waylon has arrived.