I intentionally came out to the stables early. I like to be alone, and Asha said the staff didn't start arriving until 6 a.m. This man is dressed in jeans, a dark-gray Wrangler, and boots. He could be a trainer, but something tells me he's not. Most trainers don't wear cowboy boots; they wear riding boots—or at least the ones at high-end facilities like this do. When he crosses his arms, I realize I've stared too long.
"Is this your horse?" I finally let my eyes meet his, only to wish I hadn't, because now I'm staring for an entirely different reason. Iknow those eyes. They've starred in every dream and nightmare, but the face is different. His eyebrows are bigger, his jaw is broader, and his nose is strikingly straight. It's not bad, just not like the one I know.
"No," he answers, his face indifferent, as though scaring me is inconvenient for him and not the other way around.
"Do you work here?" I ask skeptically. He said this wasn't his horse, but maybe he's a potential buyer who doesn't appreciate anyone touching the horses. I extend my hand. "I'm the new EAP for the summer." He looks at my outstretched hand but doesn't take it, and when his assessing glare narrows on mine, the feeling of familiarity I got the second I saw him returns. That must be what this is. Maybe he's seen me at one of the tracks back in Louisville, earning my hours toward my degree, and by the way he's snubbing me now, I'm assuming whatever run-in we had wasn't a good one. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"
His head tilts to the side, my question peculiarly garnering his attention. "Why? Do I look like someone you know?"
My eyebrows rise in surprise. It's not so much his question that makes my skin prickle with awareness, but the mischievous glint in his eye. I don't know this guy from Adam, but the way he's counter-questioning me is avoidance. I'm only unsure if it's because I'm about to become the butt end of an impending snarky remark or because he does, indeed, know me.
A door closing at the far end of the stable has him sidestepping me. "You're here for the whole summer?" he asks, heading toward the south exit.
"I am," I answer as I watch him saunter away.
"Then I guess I'll see you around."
"Hey, I never got your name," I call out as his boots hit the gravel outside the door, but he doesn't stop. It's not that I expected he would after that odd encounter. "You forgot to mention why I shouldn't touch the horse," I grumble as I turn back to Duke.
"What is wrong with me? Huh, Duke?" I ask, leaning my forehead against the cool bars separating us.
I don't know what it was about him, but I'm certain I'll be playing our brief interaction in an endless loop for the remainder of the day. It's like emotional muscle memory—magnetically pulled toward men who barely register my existence. I don't know him. I can't even say that I want to know him. The rational part of my brain is screaming self-sabotage. The arrogance in his posture, the brooding intensity, and even his non-answer to my every question were borderline rude. The entire confrontation should be warning enough, but something in his familiar eyes tells me I won't listen. Somewhere along the line, I started reaching for what burns me instead of what warms. There's somehow less pain when I knowingly walk into the flames. I'm prepared for it.
Chapter 11
LANEY
"Laney, isn't it almost break time?" Asha calls out from where she's copped a squat on top of the fence of the training ring where I've been working with my first horse of the summer, Casanova.
One of the reasons Asha asked me here this summer, besides the fact that we are friends and I need to finish my hours to get my Eagala certification, is that she wants to shake things up with how her family runs the business. Her father, Warrick Fairfield is focused solely on investors and breeding and is less concerned with what happens with the horses once they've lived out their racing careers.
Casanova was a racing veteran on the brink of obsolescence. New horses emerge faster and stronger every year, pushing seasoned champions like him harder. Some manage to keep up, while others have already lived their glory days. Asha's family views horses primarily as investments—breeding and racing with little concern for their post-career lives. Her father isn't cruel, but he's also not in the business of repurposing aging horses.
That's where I come in. I'm here to put in hours and earn my Eagala certification, but I'm also here to help Asha challenge her family's traditional approach to retiring racehorses. These horsesare athletes, and not all are ready for a quiet retirement. They deserve second chances, and part of my role as an EAP is understanding their behavior, learning their temperaments, and considering their needs as well as potential clients' needs.
My long-term goal is to own my own ranch. All it took was a lone dark horse, standing in a Kentucky paddock on a rainy day when hope had abandoned me completely to transform everything. That day, staring at him stoically, weathering the storm rather than seeking refuge, unlocked something inside me, revealing a deeper purpose. I was given a story that was meant for me so that I would get to that moment and find my reason for existing. Therapeutic trail riding isn't just an activity; it's a journey of connection, healing, and hope.
"Your father gave me a week to work with Casanova. Since he's been retired the longest, he's first to leave. I just want to make sure he goes to the right place," I say as I run my hand along his mahogany coat. Not only is Casanova regal, but he still has a lot of energy. The retirement facility he's slated to be shipped to isn't what he needs. "He's still eager to work and loves taking direction. I know the retirement center your father works with isn't the worst, but..."
"What are you thinking?"
"I think he might be amenable to learning dressage. I've walked through a few exercises, and he caught on to some of the basic commands quickly. But the real test would be someone who could ride him through the movements and see how he performs."
She smiles big, her dark eyes reflecting the sun before she raises her hand to shield them. "I know just the rider."
"You do?"
"I do." She hops off the fence. "I used to compete when I was younger before I started jumping. I'll ride him, but only after you take a break and come with me to lunch."
I roll my eyes. I frequently skip lunch or grab an energy bar, opting to take a break with the horses. Being with them frees my mind. I'm relaxed around them. When I was younger, I lovedmaking junk journals. Since we moved around a lot, it was hard to pick up any real hobbies. Starting a class or joining a team only to turn around and leave right as things got good sucked. I tried painting, but lugging supplies everywhere wasn't ideal.
I can't sing, I can't bake, and I could never focus long enough to learn how to play an instrument. We never had enough money for me to form a shopping addiction, but I always loved being outdoors, and since I moved around a lot, I collected souvenirs of sorts. Coasters from restaurants, passes, receipts, and movie stubs. Originally, I tossed them in a box until I was doom-scrolling one day before getting on a plane to Utah and came across an account where the girl was junk journaling. It became my new obsession. But after everything happened, even the things that used to bring me joy didn't.
"Come on, maybe we will run into your mystery man. I've been itching to run into him. I'm so damn curious who was in my barn. There's only one person I can think of that fits your description, but he wouldn't dare step on my property."
That piques my interest. "And why's that?"
"Our families have been rivals for generations," Asha says, her tone dropping a few decibels.
