“I’m not going to whip her, Jesus Christ, Candice.” Nathan’s smile disappears from his face, like storm clouds rolling over the horizon.
“Well, good,” I say, though I feel a twinge of guilt for being such a micromanager.
Nathan says nothing else, so I start talking him through the exercise, explaining how to hold his body next to hers, and how to guide her with the training stick.
“We use rewards training here,” I explain. “I give them a small treat every time they get something right. And try to stay calm. As calm as you are with Bally.”
Nathan pats the front pocket of his shirt. “I’ve got a few carrot rounds in here,” he says. “And I’m always calm.”
Nathan starts asking her to back up, but Brown Sugar holds herself high and on alert, with tension in her face and eyes, and doesn’t respond immediately to Nathan’s guidance. He’s gentle with her, but she doesn’t trust him. Not yet anyways. I can tell that he’s disappointed, but that’s life. Horses heal at the rate they need to, and sometimes it takes a while.
After about fifteen minutes of work, I pause our session.
“That was really good,” I tell him.
“Was it?” His voice is slightly bitter, and Brown Sugar flicks her ears towards him, zeroing in on the energy that he’s giving off.
“Really, Nathan. I mean it. You’re doing everything right, she’s just very nervous right now. We’ll do more here tomorrow. But for the next hour or so, why don’t you just walk her around the property? Let her sniff and explore anything she seems interested in, too.”
“To teach her that not everything has to be go, go, go all of the time?” he says.
“Exactly.” I can’t help it—I actually flash him a smile as I say it.
He’s surprised me by getting it so quickly. Not every rider does, especially not if they’ve been focused on competing for so long.
“See, Viper? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Nathan says.
“What?”
“Playing nice with me.”
And just like that, my good mood sours. I pick up Maggie’s lead line, and walk out of the ring with her without another word.
10
NATHAN
I’m wokenup on my day off from the barn by my phone blaring an obnoxious ringtone, over and over again. I rub the sleep from my eyes, roll over, and look at who’s calling.
“Fuck,” I groan. My finger hovers over the answer button, but I don’t press it.
The phone is silent for a moment and then my manager starts calling again. I have a feeling that if I don’t answer, she’ll never stop and I’ll be listening to my phone all day. I look around the bunkhouse and I’m the only one here. Tomás must be working today, or spending time with his family. He told me that on his next day off he was going to start teaching his little cousin how to ride.
“Hello?” I say, answering the phone.
“Fucking finally,” Amber says. “What the hell, Nate?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, because honestly there’s a lot of shit she could be mad at me for right now.
“What do I mean? What do Imean?!” Amber’s voice reaches a pitch that only dogs can hear, I swear to God. “A month ago, you fumble the Million Mile Ride, then you get into a fight with the guy who won. You both get arrested. You get smacked withtwo hundred hours of community service, go silent on social media, and refuse to take my calls.”
“I didn’t fumble it, Amber. I came in second, and still won two hundred grand,” I shoot back.
“I don’t care,” she hisses. “Win, lose, fumble—you take my fucking calls. Especially when sponsors are calling me daily trying to renegotiate or cancel contracts.”
“Fuck,” I say.
“Yeah, fuck is right, Nate.”
