Chapter 7
CASSIE
The tabby's on the porch when I open the cabin door, sitting by the bowl, patient and certain of himself in the way that male cats tend to be. I reach back inside for the bag on the shelf, scoop a portion into the bowl, and he drops his head before I've straightened back up.
The calico isn't here.
I look out across the porch, then toward the tree line, then back at the tabby like he's going to tell me something. He doesn't look up from the bowl.
I hear it when I step off the porch. A small sound, high and thin, coming from underneath the boards.
I crouch down and look.
The calico's wedged back against the foundation in the farthest corner, and she's not alone.
Four kittens are pressed against her side, eyes still shut, small enough to fit in my palm.
They're making that sound, that thin insistent sound.
The calico looks at me with her chin up and her eyes half closed, like she's been keeping this to herself for weeks and sees no reason to apologize for it.
I sit back on my heels in the dirt.
"I thought you were just fat," I tell her.
She blinks, slowly, and goes back to her kittens.
I leave the rest of the scoop near the edge of the porch where she can reach it and go back inside to get my clipboard.
I've got eight barrel clients arriving in two hours, and I've already read their intake forms twice, but I read them again anyway while I drink my coffee, putting faces to the names Sawyer walked me through yesterday afternoon.
Shelby Monroe, Lynette Burns, Piper Voss.
Kira Stone and Brooke James, who came together out of Billings.
Del Morrow, whose daughter signed her up.
Cara Nash, clean intake form, no notes. Wren Fuller, who used to ride western pleasure, is still unlearning it.
Eight horses. Eight histories. Eight different things they need from this week.
I finish my coffee, pull on my boots, and head out.
***
The first truck comes through the gate at nine-fifteen, and it belongs to Shelby Monroe.
I know it's her before she's out of the cab.
The truck is clean and fast-looking, with a chrome toolbox across the back and a trailer with her name on the door in block letters.
She drops out of the driver's side with the easy authority of someone who expects things to go smoothly.
Rocket comes off the ramp loud, head up, looking for something to have an opinion about.
"He traveled fine," Shelby says, already moving. "He just likes people to know he arrived."
"We heard," Rhea says, smiling. "Sawyer's over by the main cabin when you're ready."
I go to Rocket's head and let him look at me, give him a second to decide I'm not worth the drama. He drops his nose and sighs.
Shelby watches that happen and doesn't say anything.
Lynette Burns pulls in five minutes behind her in a truck that has been on more roads than I've been alive. She pulls in, drops the ramp, and brings Ace out, lead in one hand. The gelding comes off with his ears at ease, looking at the property and moving on from it.
"Good drive?" I ask.
"Yeah, it was good." She ties the lead to the trailer and closes the ramp. "He ate this morning, and drank good at the last stop."
"That's good," I say.
She nods and goes back to Ace. The way she volunteers all of that tells me she's been hauling horses long enough to know what's useful and what isn't.
Piper Voss comes in quietly, which fits everything in her intake form. Compact bay mare named Sage, blaze face, three white socks. Piper unloads her without fanfare and stands at her shoulder while Sage takes in the property, ears moving, not anxious about it.
"She's good in new places," Piper says.
"She looks it." I run my eyes over Sage out of habit.
Kira and Brooke come together in Kira's rig, and I hear the trailer before I see it because Fever is already moving around in there.
Kira comes down the ramp first, lead in hand.
The red roan mare comes off behind her with everything at the surface, ears back, tail flagging, taking in the whole lot at once.
I can already see that they feed each other.
Whatever Kira is carrying, Fever amplifies it.
Brooke comes off the ramp behind her with Charm, who takes one look at Fever's behavior and decides not to participate.
"She's always like this when she gets somewhere new," Kira says. Her jaw is tight. "She'll calm down."
"It's okay. Lots of horses get excited about new places," I say. "Give her a minute to look around."
Kira loosens her grip on the lead. Fever drops her head slightly, still watching the property, but her tail stops flagging. Kira sees it, and some of the tension goes out of her shoulders.
Brooke catches my eye over Kira's shoulder. She doesn't say anything.
Del Morrow arrives in a white pickup that's been worked hard and maintained carefully.
Buck is a dun gelding who comes off the ramp like he's done this his whole life, which, at six years old, he probably has.
Del shakes my hand with a grip that says she is here, she is skeptical, and she is not going to be rude about either.
"I'm Del Morrow," she says.
"Hi, I'm Cassie Holt. Good to have you."
She looks at me the way someone looks at a person they haven't decided about yet. "My daughter signed me up."
"That was nice of her," I say.
Del almost smiles. She doesn't quite get there, but it's enough.
Cara Nash pulls in behind Del in a clean rig, no fuss about it.
She gets Arrow off the ramp the same way, a black gelding, compact and correct, both of them already in work mode before they've cleared the trailer.
Cara glances at my clipboard, nods when I confirm her name, and moves toward Sawyer at a fast walk.
Wren Fuller comes last. Daisy's already wide-eyed at the window before the ramp drops, and she comes off the same way, planting her feet at the bottom and looking at everything in front of her.
"She's never been to a clinic before," Wren says. "Neither have I, honestly."
Wren shifts her weight, grip tightening on the lead. "Should I just…" She gestures toward the barn.
"Give her a minute. Let her look around, then we'll get her settled at the cabin corral."
Daisy looks around, then walks forward on her own. Wren blinks.
Rhea and I stand with Sawyer while she takes the group through the welcome rundown, cabin assignments, and answering questions.
After Sawyer's done, truck doors open, and tack comes out of the trailers.
The side-by-side is already running between the lot and the cabins, Levi at the wheel with Kade beside him.
I keep them at the edge of my attention.
I'm not watching him. I'm watching the whole lot.
Shelby's at her trailer when Levi gets to her large suitcase and stops. He looks at it, then looks at Shelby.
"I'm going to need you to tell me what's in here," he says. "So I know whether to be impressed or concerned."
Shelby laughs and waves him off. "Just load it."
"Yes, ma'am." He gets both hands under it and lifts. "For the record, this is concerned."
That's Levi. The whole lot easier because he's in it. I look back at my clipboard.
The group is on the property by eleven.
***
After lunch, Sawyer walks the group over to the arena.
Eight riders, eight horses already tied at the outside panels, everyone still settling into the feel of the place.
Rhea and I stand at the rail with the clients.
Sawyer goes through the gate, picks up Blitz from the outside pen, and brings him in at a run.
Everyone's quiet.
Blitz rates into the first barrel the way a good horse rates, shortening his stride on the approach, collecting himself, finding the pocket before the turn instead of diving at it.
Sawyer gives him nothing extra and takes nothing away.
He comes out of the turn and drives to the second, same thing.
Then the third, and then he's running home.
The whole pattern took maybe fifteen seconds.
Nobody moves.
I watched Sawyer compete more times than I can count before I ever set foot on this property.
I watched her from rodeo fences when I was small enough that my dad had to lift me up to see over the rail, standing in the back of the crowd while the announcer said her name.
She spent years at the top of the WPRA standings.
She was the kind of rider you stopped moving for, the kind where the whole arena went quiet, not because something flashy was happening but because something correct was, and everybody could feel the difference.
Watching her now is different from watching her then. The skill is the same. What's different is that I'm on this side of the fence. I'm staff. And I still find myself holding my breath like I'm seventeen again.
Sawyer rides Blitz out the gate and comes back on foot, taking her place at the rail.
"Questions?" she says.
Shelby's hand goes up halfway. "What was that collection before the first barrel?"
"That's the rate," Sawyer says. "He's shortening his stride on the approach so he can turn without losing his hip.
A horse that doesn't rate dives at the barrel, overruns it, or knocks it.
A horse that rates finds it." She looks at the group.
"That's what we're working on this week.
Not your times. The rate. Times follow."
Shelby's jaw moves, but she doesn't say anything.
"Who wants to go first?" Sawyer says.
Shelby's already moving toward her horse.
Shelby runs Rocket through fast, and Rocket overruns the second barrel by half a stride because he's learned to anticipate instead of waiting. He knows the pattern. He just doesn't rate it. Sawyer watches, waiting until Shelby pulls up at the far end.
"He's late on the second," Sawyer calls.
Shelby rides back, and her jaw is tight. "He does that."
"I know," Sawyer says. "That's why you're here."