“I said it was my fault.”
I glanced over. She had the camera cradled against her chest now, her chin lifted.
“I know what I did wrong. I won't do it again. You don't have to walk me through it.”
I held her gaze for a beat, then two. She didn't look away.
The mare nudged my shoulder, impatient with the delay.
“Fine.” I turned back to the trailer, unclipped the mare, and backed her down the ramp. She came willingly, calmer than the gelding had been. Some horses just needed somebody who wasn't in a hurry.
I expected the photographer to leave. She didn't. When I led the mare toward the pens, she followed at a safe distance, about ten feet back, off to one side. She stayed far enough back that I wouldn't have to ask her again.
“You're Jace Walker, right?” she called.
I didn't slow down. “Who's asking?”
“Bella Robbins. I’m from Western Dust magazine. Slade cleared me a couple of weeks ago.” She held up the lanyard so I could see the badge. “I need handler access.”
I’d assumed she was a photographer, but I didn’t realize she was on assignment. That meant she'd be poking her lens into every corner of these grounds all weekend long. I couldn’t deny her access because Slade had already handed it to her. The only thing left to negotiate was how much trouble she was going to get into using it.
I settled the mare in her pen. Latched it. Checked the water level in the adjacent pen because I needed something to do besides standing still in front of Bella Robbins.
Then I turned.
She’d moved to about six feet away and stood studying me with the same focus I'd seen through her viewfinder a minute ago. Her hands rested on the camera strap, fingers calloused along the pads, two knuckles on her right hand scabbed over from something recent. She'd taken a fall recently. Or pulled a camera out of a place it shouldn't have been. I filed that, too.
“Handler access means you stay behind the painted yellow lines at all times,” I said. “If someone tells you to move, you move first and ask questions later. You don't kneel within a gate's arc. You don't cross between a handler and an animal. You don't put your eye to a viewfinder in any space where I haven't said you can plant yourself.”
“Sounds fair.” She nodded.
Then her hand drifted to her camera. She lifted it, framed me against the pen rail, and fired off three shots before I'd registered the movement.
I stepped sideways out of her frame. Fuck. “Don't.”
“Why not? I’ve got natural light and a good angle.” She lowered the camera, but her mouth tilted up at one corner. Not apologetic. Not quite amused. Just acknowledging that she'd done it and wasn't going to pretend she hadn't. “It's a great shot. The hat shadow across your jaw, the?—”
“I don't want my picture taken.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Okay.” She didn't push. Just held the camera at her side. “I'll mark them as no-publish. Reference files only.”
I should have walked away. My phone pinged with another message and I was running behind. The south gate hinges were sticking, and the paint gelding still needed unloading. Instead I stood there, because she was still watching me with that careful systematic gaze.
“You hold everything in your shoulders,” she said.
“What?”
“Your shoulders.” She gestured toward her own. “Everyone else out here is wearing the stress on their faces, in their voices, in their hands. You're calm everywhere except right there where you’re locked in.”
I stared at her. How had she noticed that? In less than two minutes? Without me saying a damn word? She'd already cataloged something I worked to keep below the surface. From being responsible for a system that could fail in fourteen different directions before lunch.
“Do you always profile strangers?”
“It’s an occupational hazard.” She lifted one shoulder. “Photographers read bodies. The way somebody carries weight tells you what kind of shot they'll give you. Yours says you don't relax. Even when you're standing still.”
