Chapter 4 Ford #3
Topping off the generator with diesel fuel, I brought Buckshot out to the trailer.
“Here we go, boy. It’s our last training day until the Winter Games.
” Buckshot was my strongest horse, but he was also the largest. He was at least two hands taller than Whiskey and Outlaw.
One gallop from him could pull me farther than the others, but I also had to have more control for this reason.
Knowing when to let up on the rope was crucial.
Once we got to the training track, the crews for the winter games were hard at work next door prepping the game track.
We weren’t allowed to do any practice runs on the official track, which led to some competitors having bouts of pre-game anxiety, but not me.
This being my fifth time competing in the games—and the last—I knew that track like the back of my hand.
My rider, Chase Mentock, was waiting for me at the entrance.
“You know, normally in this situation, I would be bringing my own horse.” Chase started off the morning with a jab.
“And if you had a horse, I would let you.” I reached out and shook his hand.
Chase was a great guy who was an expert horseman, but since moving to Sage Mountain to skijor with me full time, he had yet to find housing he could afford, let alone horses.
As it was, he had a wife and a baby and did not need another mouth to feed.
He worked full time as a horse trainer, which in this ski community wasn’t exactly the biggest booming business, but he was making it work.
His love of riding for skijorers helped fuel his decision for living here, and I was grateful and compensated him well when we won—we split the winnings right down the middle. Chase and I were a team.
As Chase saddled Buckshot, I slid into my ski boots and got my best slalom racer skis out of the back seat of my pickup and started waxing them.
The conditions for the games were perfect: compacted snow with a powdery top layer hiding icy spots.
The jumps at the training track had been built a touch higher than the actual track had done in the past, per my request, so my training would keep me sharp enough to handle whatever they could throw at me.
The only things our training area was missing were the flamethrowers that would go off as skijorers passed certain points—an entertainment ploy, purely for the audience, but was it enough of a surprise that it could throw someone off? Sure.
“You ready?” Chase asked as he was sitting in the saddle on Buckshot.
He was wearing his black cowboy hat, a pair of blue jeans, and a heavy felted coat.
Then there was me, in full-blown ski gear, slipping on my helmet.
I followed him over to the start of the track just a few paces away and clipped into my skis.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said nodding. Taking the rope in my hand, I started thinking the same way I did at every race practice or with hundreds of spectators.
People had been hard on me my entire life.
I was raised to be a ranch hand—labor for my parents.
The only sport I could muster the time for was skijoring, since it took place in the winter when ranching was a little less intensive.
Our cattle wintered in a lower pasture and the ranch next door fed them; in exchange for the relief and hay, my parents gave them five head of cattle, along with a meager payment.
Back then, it was a good business practice.
That cattle were enough to start their own mega ranch, which they did, of premium bloodline angus.
My parents allowed my sport and graciously supported me with the funds to get skis and boots at the local Ski Swaps.
But they never really understood me. They loved me, but they wanted me to follow in their footsteps and be a rancher.
To pass on the legacy to me was everything.
Thankfully, my older brother Clint was on board with that vision.
He was ten years older than me and already growing into a man when I was born.
He had great responsibilities and was eager to do them.
Sure, I was a cowboy through and through; I just didn’t want to raise cattle—to be confined to an idea that my entire world was going to be that same plot of land. I wanted adventure. To see the world.
I was there to work hard, which I certainly did.
But the moment I had the chance to escape that life, I jumped ship into this one.
My family never reached out to me much after that, which hurt me worse.
My mother died a few years later, after a battle with an illness they didn’t even disclose to me.
Then, my dad went. Clint did call me right before that one, but I was on a short trip to Italy, and I couldn’t exactly leave.
That decision had haunted me. And now, as I navigated the jumps and corners of this racetrack, using the rope of the racing horse in front of me to slack as I sped up and tightened as I slowed, I couldn’t help but feel regret.
I never considered that I wouldn’t be married with a family of my own by now.
A chance to do it differently. To right the wrongs of my own life.
But after Poppy. . . and my fall from God, which, to be honest with myself, happened long before her—I made a decision that I wouldn’t date until I was back with God. Forgiven. Washed clean from sin.
A swift movement around a corner and for a split second, I almost let go of the rope. Did I even want to do this sport? Did I enjoy it? I was here because I was good at it. Some said, “The best in the business.” I had a wall full of trophies to prove it.
“Just one more race,” I mumbled to myself as we finished our first time through the track. After the Winter Games 2026, the persona I’d so neatly crafted of Ford Prescott could fade out with the melting of the snow. I just didn’t have a clue what I was going to do after that.
“That was our best time yet, Ford,” Chase beamed, pulling a stopwatch out of his jacket. We were both panting as we caught our breath.
“Go again?” I asked, and he nodded.