Chapter 2 #2
We eat at the small table by the window, where the last of the light's gone soft over the pasture. Riot's a dark shape near the fence line, head down in the grass like he’s perfectly content now.
The food is spectacular in the most annoying way. And Beck just smiles at me, like he knows.
Then I start thinking about the job, since that's what I'm here for, and I need the reminder.
"So what time do you usually work Riot?"
He shrugs. "Depends on the day. The weather. How he's been acting in the pasture. Sometimes it's morning. Sometimes it's the evening. Sometimes I get him out twice if he's wired."
"Okay, how long are sessions?"
"Until he seems done."
I stare at him.
"What’s that face for?"
"That's not a schedule."
"Never said it was."
"Beck."
"Ms. Dempsey." He's grinning again, but it's a different grin this time—softer, almost private, as if he's enjoying watching me try to wrangle his answer into information I can use.
"Do you do the same warm-up sequence every time?"
"Nope."
"Same cooldown?"
"Nope."
"Do you log his sessions?"
"In my head."
"Do you—" I stop, then start over. "How do you train a horse without a system?"
"I knew this horse when he was a wobbly little foal," he replies. "I started breaking him myself when he was three. I've been on his back more days than I haven't. I don't need a log to tell me what kind of mood he's in, or what he needs. I just look at him and know."
"So your method is vibes,” I deadpan.
He chuckles. “Pretty much.”
I huff. "I'm not saying you don't know what you're doing. You obviously do. I'm saying it would kill me to work that way."
“I’m sure it would,” he says, mid-bite. "Tell me how you do it."
I take a sip of tea and swallow. "I keep a daily journal on every horse I work with.
Time of session, weather, footing, what we did, how he responded, what his energy was like.
I do the same warm-up unless I have a reason not to.
I run through a checklist before I get on.
If something changes, I want to know what changed it, and I can't do that if I don't have a baseline. "
"Are they color-coded?"
"...Excuse me?"
"The journals." He's leaning back in his chair now, one arm hooked over the back of it, watching me like he’s already got me pegged. "I bet they're color-coded."
"Well, no. They're tabbed."
"Tabbed."
"Don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like it's cute."
"Ms. Dempsey.” He puts a hand over his chest. “I would never."
I wish I could pour my tea over his stupidly attractive head.
"Listen," he says, and there's something gentler in his voice now. "We can make it work. You with your tabs and your logs and me with my vibing. Riot’s smart. I’m sure he'll adapt to a system. But he'll test it, too."
"You also said he’d test me earlier. But he didn’t."
He lets out a long breath after taking a swig of beer. “No, he didn't. Highly unusual. I guess he just likes you. Can’t fault him there."
He smiles.
"Where did Riot come from?" I ask, searching for something else to think about.
"My parents mare, Honey, and our neighbor’s stallion, Bandit. Riot was a little firecracker from the start…reactive, mouthy, smart enough to be dangerous. I knew he’d be something special."
"And you trained him for film all by yourself?”
"From the ground up. Took me two years before I'd put him on a set. Another year before I'd let him near pyro." He smiles. "He was the best partner I ever had."
"Well, he has a lot more years to cause a ruckus, I’m sure."
"Yeah, he does." He tilts his head. "How'd you get into it?"
"My granddad ran quarter horses in Montana. My mom rode before she could read. By the time I came along it was just…what my family did. Maverick took to ranch work. I took to the horses themselves." I shrug. "Some kids have a thing. Horses were mine."
"You're good at it."
"I know."
He laughs. "And modest."
"Look who’s talking."
"Touché.” He raises his beer bottle.
I chuckle.
When we’re finished I get up. “I’ll do the dishes.” I go to take his plate, but he grabs my forearm.
“Ms. Dempsey, please. I need to do the things that aren’t terribly taxing on my ankle, or I’ll go crazy.”
I pull my hand away. “Fine, but I’ll bring all the dishes over to the sink, so you’re not having to walk back and forth needlessly.”
“Deal.” He grins.
I begin moving all of the dishes. “Thank you for dinner. It was quite good.”
He gets up and walks to stand near me at the sink. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
We both pause there, and I gaze into his whiskey brown eyes for a hair too long. They draw you in. “I’ll just go finish unpacking.”
"If there’s anything you need, you know where to find me." He continues to gaze at me as if he’s got all the time in the world and intends to spend it right there.
"Goodnight, Beck."
"Goodnight, Ms. Dempsey."
I shake my head. "Just call me Laurel," I reply, as I walk off.
“Will do, Laurel,” he says, and hearing him say my name in that husky drawl makes me think I’ve made a huge mistake.
I shut the guest room door behind me, hoping that’ll keep him out of mind.
But no such luck.