24. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
“Max.” I say it again, sharper this time. “Something’s wrong.”
He reaches my side in three strides, his hand coming to Sovrano’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“Left side. When I settled to halt, something shifted.” I keep my voice steady, though my heart has begun to pound. “It’s not the saddle. It’s lower. Under my foot.”
“Dismount.” His voice is calm but urgent. “Let me look.”
I swing down without argument, landing beside him while he keeps Sovrano steady. The groom appears at my shoulder, having seen us stop, and takes the bridle from Max so he can examine my tack.
He crouches beside my left stirrup and grasps the iron, pulling it down with firm pressure. The iron moves in his hand, and he bends closer to see why.
“The hole.” He points without touching. “Look at this.”
I crouch beside him. The hole where my buckle sits, the one I’ve used for years, has elongated.
The leather around it is distorted, stretched in a way that shouldn’t happen with normal use.
The iron has crept lower than my usual setting, and when Max applies pressure again, I can see how close the buckle is to slipping free entirely.
“That would have let go.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “If I’d landed hard, that would have come apart.”
“Yes.” Max straightens and looks at me. “We need to replace both leathers. Now.”
I turn to the groom. “My spare kit. There should be a pair of leathers in the side compartment. Bring them both.”
She passes Sovrano’s reins to Max and disappears toward the stabling area at a run.
The steward approaches, clipboard in hand. “Number thirty-seven? You’re called. Is there a problem?”
“Equipment issue.” I keep my voice level. “I need a few minutes to replace a stirrup leather.”
He glances at the leather still hanging from my saddle, at the iron sitting lower than it should. “I can move you back in the order. Let me know when you’re ready, or if you need to withdraw.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you know.”
He nods and speaks into his radio, and I hear the next rider being called forward. The world continues around us while I stand beside my horse and try to process what we’ve just found.
Max has removed the damaged leather from my saddle and is examining it more closely. His jaw is tight, but his hands are steady. I watch him turn it over, studying the distorted hole, the way the leather has weakened around the buckle point.
“Keep this out of the kit when we’re done,” he tells me. “I’d like the saddler to look at it.”
“The side pocket of my tack bag. I’ll leave it there until we can show him.
” I reach up to stroke Sovrano’s neck. He turns his head toward me, impatient for my attention, and I make myself take a breath.
We have found something we can change. I don’t have to climb back on and hope the feeling goes away.
The groom returns with my spare leathers and takes Sovrano from Max after handing them over.
Max threads the first one through the stirrup bar, adjusts the length to match my usual setting, and tests the buckle twice before moving to the right side.
He removes that leather too, replacing it with the fresh one.
I check the lengths with him, then ask the groom to put the old pair in the side pocket of my tack bag.
“Both new,” he says when he’s finished. “I’ve checked the saddle, the girth, the breastplate. Everything else looks sound.”
“Let me walk him.” I take the reins from the groom. “I want to see him move.”
I lead Sovrano in a small circle, watching his stride, feeling for any unevenness in his movement. He walks soundly, his weight distributed normally, his ears pricked forward with interest. When I ask the groom to trot him out, he moves willingly, his action clean and regular.
“He’s moving normally.” I wait while she brings him back beside us. “Let’s see how the new leathers feel.”
We return to the warm-up ring, where Max brings the mounting block over from the rail.
I settle into the saddle and find my stirrups, testing my weight in each one.
The new leathers are solid, the buckles secure, my feet supported evenly on both sides.
I ask Sovrano to walk forward, then trot a small circle.
Everything feels right. The wrongness I noticed before has disappeared completely, replaced by the familiar balance I’ve worked so hard to rebuild.
“Better?” Max asks.
“Much better.” I bring Sovrano back to walk. “I’d like to try the small vertical.”
He nods and steps back while I turn Sovrano toward the small practice fence in the warm-up ring. I establish a trot, find my rhythm, and ask for canter.
The approach feels normal. My stirrups are solid, my balance is centered, my horse is moving freely beneath me. I count the strides, adjust my position, and feel Sovrano lift as we clear the fence.
The landing is perfect. No shift, no give, no wrongness. Just my horse carrying me forward, exactly as he should.
I circle back to where Max is waiting and halt beside him. “It’s good. Everything feels right.”
“Then it’s your call.” He looks up at me, his expression serious but steady. “If you want to ride, ride. If you want to scratch, we scratch. Either way, I’m with you.”
I look down at my feet, then at Sovrano’s ears.
There is no sinking sensation beneath my left foot now, no need to correct my balance after we land.
He stands comfortably while I decide, waiting for the next thing I ask of him.
I have felt the difference myself. That matters more than how many people have come to watch or how long I’ve wanted this day.
“I want to ride.” I gather my reins. “Find the steward. Tell him I’m ready.”
Max catches my gloved hand and squeezes it briefly, his thumb pressing against my palm. “I’ll be at the rail.”
“Trying to look calm?”
“I’m hoping to fool someone.”
His smile eases the last tightness in my chest. I turn my hand in his, pressing back before I let go. He leaves to speak to the steward, and I keep Sovrano walking until our turn comes. When Max returns and tells me they’re ready for us, I find myself smiling again.
I turn Sovrano toward the arena entrance, my heart pounding with something that feels more like anticipation than fear. Whatever happened with that stirrup leather, I’ve addressed it. I’ve checked everything I can check. I’ve made my choice.
Now I get to ride.
The bell rings as I enter the arena, and I push Sovrano into canter, establishing the rhythm I want before we approach the first fence.
The stands are fuller than I expected, faces turned toward us, but I don’t let myself look at them.
I look at the fence, at the ground between us and it, at the ears of my horse as he focuses on what I’m asking.
We meet the first fence in stride, and Sovrano clears it with room to spare. The landing is smooth, the canter continuing without hesitation. I look toward the second fence, adjust my line, and feel him respond to the shift of my weight.
The second fence is clean. The approach to the third is longer, and I use the distance to establish the balanced rhythm I’ll need for the turn that follows. Sovrano’s ears are pricked forward, his attention fully on the course, and I feel the familiar joy of working with a horse who knows his job.
We clear the third fence, and I’m already looking into the turn, already planning the line to the fourth. This is the tight turn I walked with Max, the one I practiced at home. I sit up, ask him to collect, and feel him respond with the willingness that comes from years of partnership.
We’re three strides from the fourth fence when the left rein goes slack.
There’s no warning. One moment I have contact on both sides, the next my left hand is holding nothing but loose leather, the rein separated somewhere near the bit.
Sovrano’s head comes up as he feels the sudden change, his stride faltering, and I feel myself tip forward as his balance shifts beneath me.
I grab mane with my left hand, the broken rein forgotten, and focus everything I have on staying in the saddle. My right rein is still intact, still connected, and I keep that contact soft, not pulling, not hauling on his mouth while he’s trying to understand what’s happening.
“Easy.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Easy, boy.”
The fourth fence fills my view. He is gathering to jump, and I have one instant to recover my balance and go with him. I keep my leg against his side, my hand in his mane, and let him lift me over.
He clears it. Barely. His hind legs scrape the pole, and I hear it rattle in the cups, but it stays up. We land off-balance, his stride uneven, and for one terrible moment I think I’m going to come off.
I don’t.
My left foot finds its full support again, and I bring my shoulders back over my hips. The empty contact frightens me more than the lurch did, but hauling on the right rein will only make things worse. I keep that hand quiet and use the voice he has heard every morning since we began again.
“Whoa. Easy. Good boy.”
The fifth fence is ahead, the combination I walked with Max, but I’m not going anywhere near it.
There is open ground to our right. I guide Sovrano into it in a wide arc, giving him room to find his balance away from the course.
He’s confused, I can feel it in every stride, but he’s listening. He’s trying to understand what I need.
I bring him down through trot to walk, keeping the arc wide, giving him room to settle. My legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. But I keep my voice calm, keep my body quiet, keep asking him to trust me even when nothing makes sense.
We come to a halt near the arena entrance, well clear of the remaining fences.
I lift my free hand toward the judges and call that I’m retiring. The course can stay unfinished. I have brought him to a standstill beneath me, and for a moment that is all I can understand.