“Humph,” Ian said. He leaned back against the bench and gazed out at the mare pasture below us.
“And the worst part is,” I said, kicking at the dirt, “she left without warning. Texted me to say she was leaving.”
“Ridiculous. Texting.” He almost spat the word out.
“So, after a lot of thought . . .” I paused, laying out my plan in my mind one more time, “I’ve decided to quit school and—”
Uncle Ian jumped up. “You will do no such foolish thing! You listen to me, Brynn Seymour. This is something you’ve wanted since you were a wee lass. Davis is a top school, and it’s a privilege to be in the program! What will your mother think? What about Dr. Dixon? I spoke to her just last week, and she told me that you’re one of her most promising students, you are. You can’t give up now. You’ve only got a half a year to go, the best part of the schooling.” He paused, looking away. “I owe your mother and father that much.”
“You know he was never a hundred percent behind my going to vet school . . .” My voice trailed. But as soon as I spoke the words, I realized how true they were.
“That’s not true,” he insisted. “He was proud. He was proud of your conviction, and your ability to follow through with pursuing your dreams. Don’t ever forget that, Lassie.” Then more gently, he added, “You just need to hang in a wee bit longer. There will be other clients. You’ll see. If that Corinne woman doesn’t respect your talent, then it’s better she’s gone anyway. You know your father would agree with that.”
I stared at my feet for a while, trying to come up with a good response.
“The problem is, I have a feeling others will follow. I need to give the rest of my clients some assurance they’re in good hands. In great hands. And frankly”—I peered up at him—“I think it’s hypocritical of me to be running the barn while studying. The clients want someone who has their full focus on the barn. You know how tough this business is. I’m lucky they’ve held on as long as they have. They came to us for Dad. Not me.”
“Dropping out of school is not an option.” He shook his head, his fists clenched at his sides. “We’ll think of something.”
“There is no other way. I’ve considered everything,” I said. “With Corinne gone, that’s a loss of a third of our training income. You know that doesn’t leave enough to get by on. The upkeep of the ranch is too much, and Mom and I, well . . .” I was glad he wasn’t looking at me so he wouldn’t see my embarrassment. “Dad left us in a lot of debt. I have to keep our clients and get more or we won’t own Redwood Grove a few months from now.”
Uncle Ian picked at a piece of grass. I buried my face in my hands. I wanted to be a kid again, playing free in the pastures, letting my dad handle all the problems.
“There, there, child.” Uncle Ian’s large hand patted my back. “Have you considered a leave of absence?”
“I’m not sure they’ll allow that. And even if they did, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go back.”
“I’ll look into all that—but you can’t quit.”
I heard a far-off neigh. I sat up straight, pressing my chin high, my shoulders back.
“I need your help, Uncle Ian. I’ve decided to ride in the Spruce Meadows Million Dollar Gold Cup.”
His body shifted, his mouth opened, but I continued.
“I know you’re going to say it’s impossible. But it was always Daddy’s dream to have us compete together there. He’d talked about it since I was going over my first cross rails.”
“I remember.”
“We can’t achieve that dream now, but I can try to make it to the top on my own. That will bring me closer to his dream. And competing will be good publicity for me and our barn. It will prove to people that I’m a trainer worth hiring. If I win, I can keep the business going, support the ranch, make sure we don’t default on the mortgage.”
Silence filled the air.
“I’m going to need a trainer who will take me there.”
Uncle Ian’s gaze fixed on me.
“Will you help me find one?” I asked, then held my breath.
Uncle Ian took my hands, turning my palms face up. He stared at them for what seemed like an eternity.
“You have talent. There’s no doubt about that. You’d make a skilled and capable vet, but I also understand why you must do this. I know you can achieve whatever you set your mind on, so if it’s the Gold Cup you want, then you can get there. You have a magic about you that I’ve always seen, Lassie, and I know once you take charge of your destiny, once you believe in yourself, you’ll make things happen.”
“Thank you,” I said. His eyes were moist with tears. “You don’t know how much it means to me to have your support.”
Uncle Ian looked away.
“On one condition: you have to promise to finish school. After you win.”
“I don’t know.” But then I nodded. “I promise to try.”
“So, a trainer then,” he said, matter-of-factly, composing himself, scratching his head. “There’s only one: Jason Lander. He’s your man.”
Jason Lander. Between Uncle Ian’s endorsement and Google, I’d learned a lot about the peridot-eyed man I’d seen at my father’s funeral. And though I hadn’t met him, I remembered his penetrating stare the day he sat in the front pew at the funeral—as if he understood me, knew me. The picture I’d seen in that magazine at Chris’s haunted me still—his ease with that horse in the meadow unmistakable, even in stillness. He was the youngest in history to have won the World Cup; at the age of seventeen they’d called him the show-jumping wonder boy. He’d followed it up with two more World Cup wins, but had stopped jumping three short years later. These days, he was more interested in yoga than jumping, but he had been featured in a few recent articles about his belief that horse riders who practice yoga have an advantage.
Jason was supposed to have been here at four thirty, but judging by the light, it was closer to five. He wasn’t taking me seriously. Ian had convinced me that Jason was the right trainer: capable, honest, and affordable. They had a special bond, Ian said. He was like a son; they had instantly connected years back, and apparently he’d been the one to introduce Jason to my dad. It took Jason days to get back to Uncle Ian, and he had just arrived back in California from India.
I’d been riding Jett for nearly an hour, expecting Jason. I looked toward the entrance of the arena, and finally, there he stood. With the setting sun behind him, he seemed to fill the entrance with his presence. His features were concealed by the shadow of his Australian cowboy hat, but I could feel his stare. The reins slipped through my fingers, and I glanced down at Jett’s mane, a sense of familiarity washing over me.
Jason walked through the arena, his footsteps muffled by the sand, his stride long and purposeful. His presence held authority and calm.
“I apologize for being late.” Jason gave a slight nod. “Something took longer than I expected.”
I slowed Jett to a walk and circled the arena, trying to consolidate my sudden fear that he wouldn’t help us. I knew it was a long shot, with how little we could pay, and how we couldn’t offer more than a part-time position. The frog-and-cricket symphony filled the silence, and I sensed Jason’s eyes on me.
After circling the arena once more, I walked Jett toward Jason and stopped. His eyes bore into mine. “Jett’s warmed up. Did you want me to take him over a few jumps?”
“I’ve been watching. From over there.” He nodded toward the hill, the one with the oak tree.
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my surprise. “I’ve set up a course.”
“That’s all right.”
I hesitated, but then slid out of the saddle, busying myself with securing the stirrups on each side so that they wouldn’t hang—a safety precaution.
Jason pulled his hat off and ran a hand through unruly, brown hair. “How about we sit down and talk. This is an unusual circumstance, since I don’t normally take on clients anymore. I’ve been busy with other things. I’d li
ke to make sure we have the same goals, have an understanding.”
I was already walking with Jett toward the gate, but his comment made me stop. Had I known he was watching maybe I would have ridden more properly. Maybe I could have jumped on my own, to show off Jett’s potential. “Of course,” I said. “Let’s talk in the office.”
In the office I sat in Dad’s chair as Jason walked over to the wall of photos that, in essence, catalogued my dad’s and my careers.
“Lovely,” he smiled, tapping a framed photo of me on a pony. I blushed, as if Jason had gotten an intimate look into my life. I remembered that show. I’d won my first blue ribbon. “Spectacular property,” he said. “Really spectacular.” He peered through the coffee-colored wood blinds out toward the pastures. “You have something special here. I don’t mean just in property value, I mean in the spirit of the place. You’re so close to the city, yet you might as well be in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes, well, we think so.” I needed to steer him away from talk of the land; I didn’t need him guessing our troubles. “Uncle Ian highly recommends you as a trainer. I know you haven’t taken on clients in years, so—” I cleared my throat again. “What have you been doing, umm, aside from yoga, that is?”
Jason turned, then smiled, walking slowly toward the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He was around thirty, maybe a bit younger. He pulled off his hat, and I noted his hair—much too long for a jumper rider—ran into longish sideburns.
“This and that.” He continued to smile, rubbing a finger over the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. As he sat, his long legs stretched almost to the desk, and I sat more upright, tucking my own in under my chair. I wasn’t used to sitting on this side of the desk interviewing people. I had sat in on a couple of client interviews, but never for hiring an employee.
I cleared my throat again, the air dry in my mouth. “Right.” I pulled out a notepad so that I could take notes. It seemed like the right thing to do in an interview. “What can you tell me about your top influences in the sport? Your dreams and aspirations?”
“Isn’t it a bit early for us to discuss our dreams?” The edges of his eyes crinkled, his lips turned up in a half smile.
God, what was I doing? He was a two-time World Cup winner and I was asking him about his influences in the sport. It was he who was interviewing me more than anything. “Um, what I meant was . . .” I hesitated, tapping the pen on the notepad. I had to get to the point. “As you probably realize we’re a small training stable. We’re not a fancy barn, but Jett, the horse you saw out there, has more heart than any I’ve ever ridden. Any I’ve ever known, and I need you to help me train him—to train us, that is. I want you to take us to the Spruce Meadows Million Dollar Gold Cup.”
Jason leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle. “I think every rider dreams of winning the Gold Cup.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at me.
“I’m not everyone.” I rubbed the sweat off my hands on my britches. Here came the clincher. He’d either run or laugh again, and now was my chance to find out. “And I want you to do more than take us to the Gold Cup.” I inhaled again. “We need to win.”
Don’t break eye contact. Don’t let him see you falter.
Jason looked like he was deliberating his next chess move.
“Brynn.” My name rolled off his tongue. He sat up straighter, his smile disappearing. “I got out of this business because I was tired of babysitting wealthy clients.” He looked straight at me, tilting his head, his features suddenly softening. “But I love horses. Love their unbreakable spirit. They love unconditionally, and I believe in unconditional love—not the spur-of-the-moment or instant pass-in-the-night type of love. Horses trust completely, yet they also naturally sense danger. They flee from unpredictability and any sort of pretense.” He paused. “Not unlike yourself, I’m sure.”
I opened my mouth, a small sound escaping before I could stop myself.
Jason looked up at the pictures on the wall. “In my opinion, the horse has the purest spirit of all animals. If I help you compete, it’s not to help you follow some materialistic dream. If I do this, it has to be for something bigger.” He sat forward. “And I know I can help you and Jett get to the Gold Cup—Jett has more scope than you’d think—but you have to figure out what your real goal is. Outside of winning money, that is. That goal just doesn’t work for me.”
Horseshoes clip-clopped out in the barn. Derek was bringing the horses in from turnout.
I met Jason’s gaze. “Well, I want to win. What else is there?”
“Well, let’s see. Maybe to bring out Jett’s potential. To bring out your potential. I’d do it, say, if you wanted to overcome personal fears. To help you achieve something that’s been within your reach, but has escaped you. Or maybe if you wanted to follow your own dreams . . .”
I had to look away, to swallow, to breathe.
“You have to want it, to feel it, to taste it. For you. For Jett. For something bigger than yourself. That’s what will get you your win. It’s about the moment, Brynn, not the victory. If you focus only on winning for prestige, or making a name for yourself, or money, you risk breaking your horse’s spirit, and in essence your own. It’s got to be more than that.”
I licked my lips, brushed some crumbs off my desk, and nodded. “I understand.”
Jason’s eyes rested on the empty bag of chips and the Toblerone bar on my desk.
“Hmmm. Well, I’ll have to think about it. And of course, if we do this, there are rules. You’d have to follow them to a T.”
I nodded again.
“There are four. Number one: nutrition. Key for you and key for your horse. You will feed Jett and yourself as I say. That means no junk and no alcohol. Number two: training happens only on the days I say it does. No over-jumping, no going behind my back to do extra just because you think you know more.” He paused, and I nodded again. “Three, the training happens how and when I say it does. You can question, but in the end, my decision goes.”
A horse neighed, then another. Feeding time. The ATV that Derek used to drive the hay around resounded through the barn. The air in the office suddenly seemed thick, and the temperature must have risen since we had come in. I broke eye contact and stared out the window. The sky had changed to a dark blue, with hints of carmine and gold.
“What’s number four?”
“Yoga. You agree to do yoga with me at least four times a week, and it has to be before you ride.”
I jerked my head up to see if he was serious, ready to laugh, but when I saw his eyes, I knew this was no joke. “You may want to watch us jump first,” I finally said.
“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think you and Jett had talent. I know his lineage, and I know Ian Finlay. I trust him.” He leaned back in his chair again. “I’ve also seen you show at Young Riders at Spruce Meadows.” His smile returned. “It’s not just about the jumping, though. We need to work on something more than just the physical training. Don’t get me wrong, the skills matter, but the extra height at the Gold Cup requires way more than that. And you and Jett were good back then, but you need to be better. And with your petite frame, it’ll be tough. Not impossible, but tough. I mean, look at Margie Goldstein-Engle. She’s what? Five foot four?” He eyed me from across the desk. “And from what I gather, you’re not much taller.”
My cheeks burned. He’d already sized me up.
“That’s where the yoga comes in. To draw the potential out of both of you. I can help you, but you have to trust me. We have to work as a team.”
The look in his eyes reminded me of that of a winning horse’s. Filled with truth. Tenacity. Love.
When he stood to leave, my polo shirt clung to my back. I straightened my shoulders and reached out my hand, hoping he wouldn’t feel it tremble. He shook it, holding my hand in his for a split second longer than necessary, bowing his head to me for a cursory moment. Then Jason grabbed his hat and coat and walked out of the office, leaving me to
collapse in my chair.
Jason’s first day I scrubbed my face in the bathroom with a washcloth, rubbing until my cheeks and forehead were red. I clipped my already short nails, allowed the timer on the electric toothbrush to go for an extra round, flossed, and put my britches and polo shirt on. I grabbed my gray zip-up hoodie out of the closet. I would need warm layers today. I briefly considered makeup, then chastised myself. I never wore makeup to the barn, so why would I start now? Instead, I rubbed on my vanilla-flavored lip balm while on my way to the kitchen.
Mom stood with her back toward me, leaning against the sink looking out at the pastures, her drawn face reflected in the kitchen window. She held a cutting board full of vegetables. She was cooking. I couldn’t remember the last time she had cooked. In response to my perplexed look she said, “I’m starting something in the slow cooker. It’s that time of year. Thought we’d have something savory and rich to eat after my shift.” She wiped at her nose with her sleeve, and I knew she’d been crying again.
“Mom, please don’t . . .”
“It’s just the onions. I hate chopping onions.”
“That’s the oldest excuse in the book.” I wanted to hug her and tell her we were going to get through all of this. We stood, the sound of the knife—scrinch, chop—chopping against the cutting board. I reverted to the only thing I knew how to talk about. “I had a great ride on Jett, yesterday. I couldn’t believe how strong and fluid he was. He cleared each jump without so much as a blink.”
She didn’t respond. I realized I was expecting Dad’s reaction: beaming at me, hugging me, wanting every last detail. This was the last thing she wanted to hear.
As if she hadn’t heard me, she reached for carrots from the fridge. “You’re back to school what week? Right after the New Year?”
I tapped my fingers on the counter, went to bite at a cuticle, then tapped the counter again. I had to finally come clean. “Actually, Mom, we need to talk. Can we sit?”
Learning to Fall Page 13
