We mount up and start our ride, steering the horses past the snowy pastures and out onto one of the trails that crosses our land. It’s covered in about eight inches of snow, but it doesn’t matter. I’d know this land in the dark and in my sleep.
The world feels completely quiet and still, the way it only can when covered in snow. The only sound is the rumble of the horses’ breaths and the crunch under their feet. Candice rides alongside me on Thistle, though she keeps her eyes carefully turned ahead. I can’t help but sneak a glance at her every few moments, and I watch as her face softens more and more with each minute. She was panicked and high-strung yesterday. Now she’s clearly relaxed and happy.
“So,” she says after a while. “Are you going to tell me about it?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I feel fine this morning.”
“You’ve been upset about something for the last two weeks, and I want to know what it is. It’s what friends do, Nathan. They talk to one another. I might not know anything about dating, but friendship I know.”
“We’re friends?” My breath hitches as I say the words.
“Sort of. Friendly enough,” she says, shooting me a glare. But I can tell it’s all a front. Her whiskey colored eyes are clear and lively, not dark and angry.
We ride along in silence for a few more minutes, the horses taking their time as they plod along in the snow. It’s nice riding like this, with no particular aim or goal in mind. Just me and Candice and the horses.
“Well?” she prompts.
“Fine,” I say, ignoring the way my heart immediately starts racing. “I’ll tell you. But please just let me talk. Don’t get mad, at least not until I’m done speaking.”
“Why would I get mad?” Candice asks, sounding confused.
“Because,” I say, “the day I lost to Brad Thomas, I also saw him treating his horse like shit.”
The words ring out in the forest, amplified by the lack of any other sound. Beside me, Candice says nothing, and just keeps her eyes straight ahead. Her silence gives me the space and courage to keep going.
“He trains horses for reining, and cutting too. He got his start on a ranch just like I did.”
“You are not like him,” Candice murmurs.
“You don’t know what I’m going to tell you.”
“I don’t need to know the specifics,” she says. “If he was treating his horse like shit, then you aren’t like him.”
“The day before the competition,” I continue, “I was spending some time with Ballantine, just talking to him. Brad was at the same barn, and he was working the horse he was going to ride later that day—Palladium. He was tiring Palladium out, lunging him real hard, and I stopped by the ring and watched for a bit, but Brad didn’t see me. After they were done, Palladium looked exhausted. And then I heard Brad say to the horse, ‘If that doesn’t make you behave, then the romifidine will.’ ”
I expect Candice to jump out of her saddle in anger, but she remains calm, and simply brings Thistle to a halt, and turns to look at me. Her face is impassive and, miraculously, judgement free. The story I just told her about Brad confirms every bad thing she already thinks about competing, but she doesn’t seem to be that upset.
“Reining horses need to be calm to perform. Some would even say docile. But not all horses, even the well-trained ones,want to be calm all of the time, so there’s been talk of changing the rules to allow for sedatives. Just about every vet, including your brother, says that this is insane. When horses are doped up like that, they hide things like lameness and injuries. For the moment it’s still banned. But…” I trail off, unsure what else to say.
“But Brad might be using it on Palladium. And witnessing him treat his horse like that shook you up so much that you didn’t perform your best and you ended up punching him in the face later that night. Right?” Candice says, putting it all together.
“Exactly. It pissed me off,” I say, releasing a breath. “No horse deserves to be exhausted and then drugged, just so their rider can win. But it was more than that. It made me sick with disbelief. How could one of us do something like that? How could—how could he?” My voice shakes slightly, but I don’t even care. Candice is still looking at me like she sees something good in me and that’s enough. For now, that’s enough.
“Brad’s actions violated your trust in the sport you love,” Candice says. “He took something you’d known as good—something that saved you and saved your family—and he showed you just how dark it could be.”
Her words reverberate through me, giving voice to the nameless feeling that’s been hounding me for the last month.
“Yes,” I say. “I love reining. I love competing and I love winning. I love working with Ballantine and Salvador and I’ve never treated him, or any horse, the way I saw Brad treating Palladium.”
“Then there’s your answer,” Candice says. “That’s what you need to cling to. You aren’t like him.”
“Aren’t I, though? We’re both reiners. Isn’t this exactly why you hate competition?”
Candice sighs, and frowns a bit. “I don’t hate competition,” she says. “I hate people. I distrust equine sports because assoon as it becomes about winning and money, some people are willing to forgo animal welfare. They ignore their horse’s needs in favor of making the animal do whatever they need it to do in order to win.” She reaches down and pats Thistle on the neck and then continues. “Horses are pure. They are willing to work for us, to compete for us, to train for us, despite receiving so little in return. The relationships we have with them have to be constructed carefully and honorably. You have that relationship with Ballantine. That’s what matters most to me.”
“I still don’t know why I want your approval so badly,” I say slowly, turning her words over.
“It’s probably because you know that I wouldn’t lie. If I thought you were doing any harm to Ballantine or any other horse, you know I’d tell it to you straight,” she says, looking up and catching my gaze. “And for what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing by punching Brad.”
