28. Bonnie
BONNIE
Keeley cries after the run. I am grinning too hard to congratulate her properly.
She and Flint have come through the pattern without the old fight at the second barrel.
The time is modest. Nobody has set a record or won enough money to change their life.
She has ridden the horse she owns with confidence she did not have when she first came to me.
I am so pleased I have to put a hand on the rail to stop myself climbing over it.
“You stayed with him,” I tell her when she comes out.
“I almost pulled.”
“I saw. Then you didn’t.”
She laughs through the tears. Flint lowers his head while she loosens the reins. Our breath clouds the cold air while Keeley rubs his neck.
It is the first Wednesday in February, a schooling event small enough that we know most of the riders by the end of the morning. I brought Keeley here because she wanted a place to try the work without a large crowd. Gage has Cricket at his house for the afternoon.
At six months, my daughter has begun reaching for everything I hold. Yesterday she took the corner of my lesson notes and tried to eat the part about outside rein support. I now keep paper farther from her than I keep my coffee.
Keeley dismounts and walks Flint beside me.
“I’d have sold him last summer if you’d told me to,” she says. “I thought I needed a better horse.”
I rub his forehead. “You did the work with this one.”
She hugs me with the reins still in one hand. I hug her back, then make her stand for a photograph beside him. She asks if I want to be in it. I say yes without looking around for somebody who should be standing in my place.
After we load Flint, the event coordinator finds me by the trailer. She has heard from the regional organizer about my clinic and wants to ask about April.
“The Crown final has an education program in Amarillo,” she says. “They’re looking for someone to teach the relationship between groundwork and the pattern. I gave them your name.”
I know exactly which final she means. Gage talks about it when he gets back from qualifiers, still competitive enough to bring the rankings to breakfast. I want him to win. I have not wanted to stand in that arena again.
“Would they expect a performance?” I ask.
“A teaching session. You’d choose the format. They mentioned Mercy because people know the horse, but the program’s yours.”
“Who runs the education side? Byers Western has its name on everything at that final.”
“The circuit’s education office runs the teaching pen. Byers still sponsors parts of the event and buys screen time. That’s separate from the campaign with Gage. They don’t control your session.”
I ask for the details. She sends me the education coordinator’s number while we are standing there. I do not agree because she is watching. I thank her and say I will call.
Keeley calls from her truck before I am halfway home and talks about Flint until she notices I have gone quiet. I tell her about the invitation.
“You should go,” she says.
“I’m trying to work that out.”
“You were good today.”
“You did the riding.”
“I know. You let me.”
I keep that with me for the rest of the drive.
Gage is making dinner when I collect Cricket. She is on a blanket on the floor with him beside her, reaching for a toy while the oven heats. He gets up only after I am close enough to take over. She sees me and makes a delighted noise that undoes the whole cold afternoon.
“How did it go?” he asks.
“She did it.”
He grins. I show him the video while Cricket tries to seize the phone. He watches once, then asks to see the second turn again.
“Keeley waited,” he says.
“She did.”
We admire it together.
Over dinner, I mention the invitation. Gage puts his fork down.
“Do you want to?”
“Part of me does.”
“What does the other part want?”
“To avoid everybody who ever saw me cry in that arena.”
“I’d like to see you teach there,” he says.
“It’d be my session.”
“Yes.”
“If I bring Mercy, she comes for the lesson I choose. No exhibition added while I’m eating lunch.”
“You should put that directly to the education coordinator.”
After dinner, I call from his kitchen while he plays with Cricket in the next room. The education coordinator explains the program, the fee, the arena slot. I ask every question I have, including the ones that sound suspicious. She answers them without treating me as difficult.
I accept the teaching session. Mercy’s participation remains subject to my decision closer to the date. The coordinator says that is fine; they can supply a suitable demonstration horse or let me work with enrolled riders.
“Put my name on it without hers for now,” I say. “I want the riders to bring the problems they actually have.”
“And this is a teaching booking. No family photographs or promotions with Gage and Cricket.”
“Understood,” the coordinator says. “I’ll include that in the confirmation.”
I thank her and end the call.
When I come back, Gage looks up from the floor.
“I’m going,” I say.
“What did you decide about Mercy?” he asks.
“I haven’t. They want me either way.”
I sit beside him and take Cricket into my lap. I like saying that enough to tell him twice.