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FourteenWINNIE
Usually, I tell myself Fridays with Mab are for her and whoever her future rider turns out to be. It helps me compartmentalize my feelings and remember she’s not mine. Every drill, every ride, every spin of the barrels is for them and their future.
But after the last few stressful weeks, fuck it. This ride is forme. I’m choosing to be selfish and hog Mab to myself for one afternoon and pretend for a few hours she’s mine and we’re the only two souls in the entire world. I even beg Camilla to put away the stopwatch for once, and roll the barrels all the way out into the back pasture, where Mab and I can forget about barriers and walls. I lead her out through the other, closer pastures, luxuriating in the way the warm sun seeps into my heavy barn coat. Making a split-second decision, I pull it off, tossing it over a nearby fence post, and fold the sleeves of my worn flannel over my forearms. The breeze tangles in my hair, and I remove my ball cap to allow the gusts to toss the strands freely.
The air out here smells like green grass and open sky andwhatever the opposite of my trailer is, and my stomach does a giddy flip at what lies ahead.
It’s such a change from the heavy dread that’s dogged my every move recently, I barely recognize myself in this moment. We reach the edge of the paddock I’ve reserved, and I pull Mab over to the fence to mount. I swing my leg over the top rail and perch like a Carolina chickadee ready for flight. Mab’s glossy coat twitches in anticipation. She’s perpetually ready, but there’s no doubt in my mind she’s caught my need for speed.
I slip my hat back on to shade my eyes and reach for the saddle to pull myself over, leaning down and pressing a kiss to Mab’s mane, drawing my fingers through the softness. “Hey, girl. How do you like the change of scenery?” I run her through several drills, getting her acclimated to the distance of the barrels and our wide-open setting. The ground here is soft and sandy, mimicking the inside of the arena and protecting the horses from divots or anything that could trip them up, but it’s still different. The sand outside isn’t as preserved as it is in the arena.
After we’re warmed up and I’m confident she’s plenty annoyed with me holding her back, I nudge her into a controlled trot and run her through the clover formation, paying close attention to how she feels underneath me: how she’s reacting to the turns and if she’s hesitating (she’s not; she never does). I listen to her breaths and sync mine in turn. I work to anticipate her stride and match my own motion so I don’t jar her or catch us up. We should move smoothly as one, rather than clatter along like a disjointed car on train tracks.
I nudge us into another rotation just as we finish, but this time, I press my knees and click my tongue in signal, and she takes off. That little nudge is all she needs. It’s all I need, too.We’re flying. We hit the closest barrel and circle it flawlessly, my far hand out for balance since our angle is so steep. A breath later, we’re on our way to the second. Slip down and in, clearing it easily. Then the third. I hold Mab’s reins tightly, keeping herjustoff the barrels, but giving her enough room to angle herself comfortably and to allow her weight to shift precisely. She’s the muscle, but I’m her control center. I trust her to go as fast as she possibly can, and she trusts me to keep her safe.
Equal partners.
And then it’s the final pass. The straightaway when we can both let go of our control. I don’t have to tell Mab to go. She understands the assignment. Has from the very first.
But today, this is for me, too. Even I get to let go.
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I’m not even sure my heart thuds in my chest. I’m weightless and worriless. Nothing can touch me.
And then, when we get to the end and catch our breaths, I lead her immediately into another round before my responsibilities can get their claws into me again.
I don’t notice we have an audience until the final pass, when I see a flash of bright color in my periphery. My heart seems to know he’s here before the rest of me.Case.Mab and I complete our run, and I nudge her toward him, noticing he’s not alone. His dad and my boss, Mr. Michaels, are also there. This gives me pause, but I swallow back the uncertainty, reminding myself I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m supposed to train Mab. Camilla pays me extra for this.
In fact, after our “trial practice session,” Maria somehow convinced me to approach Camilla with an offer: training other horses to barrel race at the Michaels ranch or even others in thearea, including Maria’s. Camilla was immediately interested. I still have my original responsibilities, but this would be on top of those. A few hours extra tacked on at the beginning or end of my workday. We have a couple of boarders with racing potential, and Camilla has been considering purchasing more. A bit of a side hustle, depending on Mr. Michaels.
Presumably, that’s why he’s here.
I reach the fence and dismount, draping Mab’s reins over the post. Not that she would dream of running away, as tired as she undoubtedly is, but I don’t want Mr. Michaels to think I’m careless with one of the horses, even if she’s not technically his. Speaking of, Camilla rides up on Elvis and jumps off, flashing me her reassuring smile.
“Looking good out there, Winnie,” Mr. Michaels says. “Mab seems to have taken a liking to you.”
I reach for Mab, giving her nose a nuzzle. “It’s mutual. She’s a beautiful horse.”
“For Winnie, she is, anyway,” Camilla says dryly. “For everyone else, she’s a grouch and a half.”
I tsk good-naturedly as Mab gives my hand a lick, no doubt looking for salt. “She’s not grouchy. She’s particular, is all.”
“Well, Winnie,” Mr. Michaels says, straightening from where he’d been leaning his forearms on the top railing of the fence. He’s practically casual today in his jeans and Carhartt button-down. “I know you probably want to get Mab taken care of so you can head home, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like to offer you a sponsorship. It’s been brought to my attention you’re wasted in our stables.” He narrows his eyes. “That is to say, you still have your job, if you want it, but I think we all know you’d be better served in the arena, racing barrels.”
My mouth drops open and I stare, unblinking, my braintrying to catch up to the words coming out of his mouth. Whatever I thought this was going to be about, a sponsorship never crossed my mind.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Barrel racing. CBM Ranch would like to offer you a sponsorship. We’d fund your entrance fees, loan you the horseflesh, including Mab, since clearly she’s no good to anyone else, and in exchange, you spread our name, wear our logo, and win buckles.”
I’m still struggling to understand. “But,” I stutter past numb lips. “I’ve never even been in a rodeo before. I don’t own a horse. Or even a saddle. I’ve never raced in front of a judge.”
Mr. Michaels grins, and it looks remarkably like his son’s. Down to the dimple. “All of that can be remedied with some hard work and training. I’ve been told this is a solid investment. After watching you this afternoon, I’m inclined to agree. If you’re interested, that is.”
Everything in me wants to agree. This is one of those once-in-a-lifetime, too-good-to-be-true kinds of deals, and it’s literally everything I’ve ever wanted. Except—
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” And I am. I’m sorrier than I can even express. Sorrier than I’ve ever been about anything in my entire life. My throat is thick, and I can already feel the hot tears behind my eyes, waiting in the wings to pour buckets. I sniff, clearing my throat. I catch Camilla’s troubled gaze. “I’m—I thought we talked about training? I could train horses for racing. Here. For—” I swallow hard. “Forother riders.” I shake my head, taking a deep breath and feeling calmer, my focus switching between Camilla and Mr. Michaels and back again. “It’s an incredible opportunity, sir, but I can’t travel. I have to be close to my family. I’m sorry for the confusion.”
Mr. Michaels looks seriously taken aback. He exchanges looks with his son, who I note, looks equally gobsmacked.
