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The narrow sides of his torso and his ribs popping through hurt me to see. I knew Warren had tried to keep him well-fed while searching for a barn to take him, but Phantom wasn’t eating, wouldn’t stop pacing, and, if I couldn’t turn this around soon, could die of an ulcer or malnutrition.

I’d never forgive myself if he died on my watch.

If Gramps were here, he’d know just what to do. He was the eternal student who took every experience with horses as unique. Was I even approaching this the correct way? Was Phantom too dehydrated and manic to even build a bond with me?

I could hear Gramps’s voice. “Don’t back down now, honey. If you give in and give the horse that bucket of water without him yielding to you, you’ll never get your chance again.”

I had to persevere. For this method to work, I only had one chance. I needed him to know that I was not going to harm him, that he could trust me for water, food, safety.

Hours passed of Phantom inching close, then knocking the bucket out of my hands. My face dripped with sweat and my hair stuck to the back of my neck. My hands hurt from the metal handle that cut into my palm, but in addition to teaching me about the value of perseverance, Gramps had taught me that pain could be my friend.

My head swam and my stomach churned. I watched each flick of Phantom’s ears, the way his eyes followed me, the flare of his nostrils. This was a dance, not a battle. We were still figuring out who was leading.

Phantom circled me again, and this time, I moved toward him. He shied away and tossed his head, the shift of dominance palpable.

When he inched back toward me, I pushed him away until his head dropped and his ears tipped forward ever so slightly.

The tiniest hint of submission.

I stepped firmly toward him, pushing him back as if to ostracize him from the herd. He stomped away, angry. The tables had turned—now I was leading the dance.

“Attagirl.” I could hear Gramps’s voice as if on the wind.

Finally, I stilled and let the horse venture toward me, timidly. His body twitched and tensed, but he snorted and sniffed the bucket, then plunged his lips in for a long drink.

I fought the urge to pet the light gray mane and forehead. We weren’t there. Not yet. After a few gulps, Phantom walked away, head lowered and neck relaxed.

The tension had broken between us.

“Well done, Eva,” a female voice from the fence called out.

I blinked and turned, dazed to see Cheryl Jenkins next to Warren. Both smiled and leaned against the fence, which told me they’d been there for a while.

I must have gone to that place again—the tunnel of focus where I lost all sense of time and place. Gramps always said a volcano could erupt nearby and I’d carry on, lost in my merry little mind.

“Cheryl, what are you doing here?” I walked toward them and handed Warren the bucket of water. He offered his other hand to help me off the fence after I scaled it. I accepted it, and as my boots hit the ground, I swayed ever so slightly and felt the edges of my vision blur.

Warren held up a canteen. “First things first.”

“Thank you.” I nodded and drank the cool water. “When did you get back from town?” I asked.

“An hour ago,” he said, motioning to Cheryl. “We’ve been getting to know each other and enjoying the lesson.”

Cheryl, only five or six inches shorter than Warren, smirked at me and wiggled her eyebrows. She had a long, narrow face and thin lips with round, hazel eyes. “Father always told me about Bill’s tricks, and I confess I wasn’t sure you’d pull this off.”

“I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet,” I said, glancing at Warren. His brow was still scrunched, but he was looking at me, not Phantom. I probably looked a little worse for wear after spending the afternoon in that paddock.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Cheryl. “This is a bit out of the way of Portland.”

Cheryl reached for me and drew me in for a hug, which I returned stiffly. She’d always been so expressive, while I’d never really known what to do with my emotions.

“I came as soon as I heard about Bill,” she said, squeezing me. Despite her skirt and stockings, the fact that she hugged me in my dirty, dusty clothes revealed her as a true horse person.

We were the only two women in the region who trained and showed, and we faced the handfuls of detractors who didn’t believe we had a place in the show ring. Cheryl was a force to be reckoned with in the riding classes. At least Phantom was a few years away from that division. For now, he’d be shown in hand by halter and classified as a yearling horse.

“I invited Mr. Hayes to the association’s banquet in June.” Cheryl clasped her hands in front of her and rolled her shoulders back, as if transitioning from my friend to the local Arabian breed registry’s board member.

“Excellent. He can go in my stead.”