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“Sure thing, boss,” Joe replies, adding a mock salute for effect.
“Steve, what about the running track?” Andrew asks.
I tune out the next few article updates in favor of worrying about tonight. So, it’s fitting when Andrew reaches me and I have no idea what we’re talking about.
“We already know how Lennon’s article is going,” he states dryly.
I roll my eyes.
“I totally thought people were exaggerating about you and Winters,” Joe comments.
“What do you mean, exaggerating?”
Joe shrugs. “People talk, is all.”
I’m no longer finding Joe’s commentary amusing.
“Julie, what’s the running track update?” Andrew asks.
“On time and on budget,” she reports. “It’s going to be a struggle to write a thousand words on it, to be honest.”
“Finish the draft,” Andrew instructs. “And then let’s see if we can add a new angle to it. There’s talk of a new auditorium. Maybe we can get a quote from Principal Owens on that.”
Julie nods.
Our meeting lasts another twenty minutes. I rush out of the newsroom as soon as it ends, eager to avoid any conversations about the entertainment Caleb and I provided prior to the meeting.
The truck is missing when I finish the trek around the barn, indicating Gramps is at one of his two local haunts: the racetrack or the post office.
Rather than start with my chores the way I ordinarily would, I decide to go for a ride first to burn off some of the nervous energy fizzing inside me.
After dropping my backpack in the kitchen and getting changed, I head into the barn. Eat My Dust, better known as Dusty, whinnies when I head to her stall first.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur, rubbing the soft hair directly beneath her forelock. She nudges against me, soaking up the attention. “You ready to run?”
Dusty’s warm breath saturates the fabric of my fleece jacket as she continues to nuzzle me, looking for treats.
I grab her halter from its hook and slip it on, before leading her out into the shavings-strewn aisle. Dusty tosses her head impatiently after I clip on the crossties, eager to get outside. I tack her up quickly; my fingers so well-trained they move through the familiar motions without requiring any thought.
I lead Dusty outside, over to the empty water bucket propped upside down for this very purpose. I balance on it and swing my right leg over her broad back, then shove both feet into the stirrups. She dances beneath me as I settle in the saddle, my knees bent forward to compensate for the short stirrups. I keep a tight grip on the reins, but not to guide her. She knows the route to the training track as well as I do.
Dusty’s literally champing at the bit. The leather reins dig into my palms as she makes her impatience with the slow pace clear.
“Easy, girl,” I murmur as we cross the driveway.
The training track is nothing more than an oval stretch of dirt, but it serves its intended purpose. It used to be surrounded with fencing, but most of the rails have sagged, giving it a forlorn, tired appearance. Not that the energetic horse snorting excitedly beneath me minds. The starting marker is still standing. I guide Dusty over to it as I rise into a crouch over her black mane, making sure I’m balanced evenly over her withers.
I watch Dusty’s muscles ripple and tense beneath me as I tug her to a stop. I ensure the reins are taut and weave my fingers into the fine strands of her mane.
Then, I let her fly.
I lost track of how many times I’ve ridden a horse a long time ago. My mother returned to Landry while she was pregnant with me. Living on Matthews Farm is all I’ve ever known. I remember the day Dusty was born ten years ago. I remember watching her place second in our last season as a working farm, back when we still had the money for trainers and jockeys and grooms and entrance fees. Horse racing’s an expensive business.
No matter how many times I do this, the thrill is just as spectacular. There’s nothing in the world quite like it.
My eyes tear with water.
My thighs burn from the effort of holding upright and still.
