Chapter 11
LANEY
" L aney, isn't it almost break time?" Asha calls out from where she's copped a squat on top of the fence of the training ring where I've been working with my first horse of the summer, Casanova.
One of the reasons Asha asked me here this summer, besides the fact that we are friends and I need to finish my hours to get my Eagala certification, is that she wants to shake things up with how her family runs the business.
Her father, Warrick Fairfield is focused solely on investors and breeding and is less concerned with what happens with the horses once they've lived out their racing careers.
Casanova was a racing veteran on the brink of obsolescence.
New horses emerge faster and stronger every year, pushing seasoned champions like him harder.
Some manage to keep up, while others have already lived their glory days.
Asha's family views horses primarily as investments—breeding and racing with little concern for their post-career lives.
Her father isn't cruel, but he's also not in the business of repurposing aging horses.
That's where I come in. I'm here to put in hours and earn my Eagala certification, but I'm also here to help Asha challenge her family's traditional approach to retiring racehorses.
These horses are athletes, and not all are ready for a quiet retirement.
They deserve second chances, and part of my role as an EAP is understanding their behavior, learning their temperaments, and considering their needs as well as potential clients' needs.
My long-term goal is to own my own ranch.
All it took was a lone dark horse, standing in a Kentucky paddock on a rainy day when hope had abandoned me completely to transform everything.
That day, staring at him stoically, weathering the storm rather than seeking refuge, unlocked something inside me, revealing a deeper purpose.
I was given a story that was meant for me so that I would get to that moment and find my reason for existing.
Therapeutic trail riding isn't just an activity; it's a journey of connection, healing, and hope.
"Your father gave me a week to work with Casanova.
Since he's been retired the longest, he's first to leave.
I just want to make sure he goes to the right place," I say as I run my hand along his mahogany coat.
Not only is Casanova regal, but he still has a lot of energy.
The retirement facility he's slated to be shipped to isn't what he needs.
"He's still eager to work and loves taking direction.
I know the retirement center your father works with isn't the worst, but. .."
"What are you thinking?"
"I think he might be amenable to learning dressage. I've walked through a few exercises, and he caught on to some of the basic commands quickly. But the real test would be someone who could ride him through the movements and see how he performs."
She smiles big, her dark eyes reflecting the sun before she raises her hand to shield them. "I know just the rider."
"You do?"
"I do." She hops off the fence. "I used to compete when I was younger before I started jumping. I'll ride him, but only after you take a break and come with me to lunch."
I roll my eyes. I frequently skip lunch or grab an energy bar, opting to take a break with the horses.
Being with them frees my mind. I'm relaxed around them.
When I was younger, I loved making junk journals.
Since we moved around a lot, it was hard to pick up any real hobbies.
Starting a class or joining a team only to turn around and leave right as things got good sucked.
I tried painting, but lugging supplies everywhere wasn't ideal.
I can't sing, I can't bake, and I could never focus long enough to learn how to play an instrument.
We never had enough money for me to form a shopping addiction, but I always loved being outdoors, and since I moved around a lot, I collected souvenirs of sorts.
Coasters from restaurants, passes, receipts, and movie stubs.
Originally, I tossed them in a box until I was doom-scrolling one day before getting on a plane to Utah and came across an account where the girl was junk journaling.
It became my new obsession. But after everything happened, even the things that used to bring me joy didn't.
"Come on, maybe we will run into your mystery man. I've been itching to run into him. I'm so damn curious who was in my barn. There's only one person I can think of that fits your description, but he wouldn't dare step on my property."
That piques my interest. "And why's that?"
"Our families have been rivals for generations," Asha says, her tone dropping a few decibels.
I catch a flicker of something in her eyes—not just rivalry, but something deeper. Old wounds. The kind that don't heal easily.
"Rivals, how?" I press, knowing full well Asha loves to dangle information just out of reach.
She turns, blocking the sunlight, her silhouette suddenly sharp against the barn. "All I can say is there's a history that extends deeper than simple business rivalry."
Something Sydney said on one of our last calls comes to mind.
She liked talking about my drama because it distracted her from her own.
I've been doing my best to avoid drama and be left alone, but that hasn't exactly been working for me.
Maybe unraveling what Asha isn't telling me is just the distraction I need to escape the haunting thoughts that plague me this time of year .
"Deal. I'll go to lunch, but if this turns into drama, just remember you caused the storm."
She gives me a cheeky smile. "Good thing I like the rain."
I know Asha well enough to recognize when she's plotting.
Her smile isn't just playful—it's strategic.
She's up to something; sharing lunch is just the first move in whatever game she is planning.
The mystery man…the rival families…it's bait, and I know it, but for the first time in a long time, I'm actually curious, and that's saying something. So, I bite.
I watch Asha's eyes scour the street outside the window of the coffee shop. She insisted we stop in for an afternoon pick-me-up after lunch.
"I know what you're doing."
Her eyes flick to mine and then back to the street. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Pssh…you're stalling. We didn't run into my mystery man after someone accidentally parked at the wrong end of Third Street, forgetting the salad place she loves is at the other end."
"I did forget," she insists, her eyes eagerly darting back out the window.
"Uh-huh, and walking rather than circling the block and parking outside the restaurant wasn't intentional, the same way stopping for coffee at the shop directly across from the local tack and feed supply isn't deliberate."
Her cheeks inflate with air before she lets it trill through her glossy pink lips on the exhale.
"Fine. You caught me. I thought for sure if we had a chance of running into whoever this dark-eyed, tall glass of water is, it would be here, but seeing as how you aren't looking, and I haven't seen anyone who remotely fits the height and age, I guess we can go.
" She picks up her coffee and starts to rise from her chair.
"After all, it's only your first week here. We have all summer to find this man. "
"This is true," I say, lifting my elbow for her to wrap her arm through mine.
The two of us do not match at all. She carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knows she's unforgettable: razor-straight black hair grazing her shoulders, and impossible blue eyes that contrast dramatically, practically glowing against her beautiful dark skin.
When she's home, she dresses every bit the role of equestrian royalty that her last name is synonymous with around these parts.
And then there's me, dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, and a farmer's tan from alternating between t-shirts and tank tops depending on where I was working and the expected attire.
I am the epitome of plain Jane next to her, especially today when our outfits are so contrasting.
I'm wearing riding pants, a royal blue short-sleeved polo, and boots, while she's wearing a baby blue Lilly Pulitzer number.
We've just stepped out the door when she stops dead.
"Crap, I left my phone on the windowsill.
I'll be right back," she says, leaving my side to run back in.
It's then that a silhouette exiting the tack shop across the street catches my eye, and that sense of familiarity, the same one I had in the barn, instantly returns.
He's wearing a cowboy hat, shading his eyes today, but I don't need to see them to know it's him.
Everything else is just as it was. Same muscular shoulders tapering to a trim waist, same fitted clothing, tight but not too tight, only hinting at the shape beneath.
But those aren't even the most telling signs that I am, indeed, looking at my mystery man.
Instead, it's the way he carries himself.
He walks with a deliberate yet relaxed fluidity that looks like confidence, but because I heard him speak, I see arrogance.
I hear the bells on the door of the coffee shop ring as Asha steps out. "Got it." Her eyes immediately track mine. "Oh my god, that's him, isn't it?"
There's a flatness behind her surprised tone that betrays her recognition.
Her practiced neutrality tells me he's exactly the guy she expected, and when she takes off across the street, heels clicking against asphalt, eyes fixed forward with predatory focus, uncaring about the blaring horns of oncoming traffic, I know my mystery man is also her rival.