Page 84 of Lost Trust

The horse flicks an ear.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” I say, tightening the cinch another notch. “I was talking to me.”

Royce

I finish my last lesson of the day with a group of bull riders, watching tape in one of the classrooms, and head straight for the clinic for my therapy session with Jovie.

I’m passing the arena when something—or someone—catches my eye.

Marina.

I slow, then stop at the rail and lean against the top board, watching her work with a group of female barrel racing hopefuls gathered just outside the gate. Three barrels are set in the dirt, spaced in the familiar cloverleaf pattern.

The girls are listening intently as Marina stands in front of them, animatedly explaining something I can’t hear from this distance.

Marina walks toward a horse waiting nearby. She swings into the saddle in one smooth motion, settling her hands on the reins.

Her assistant moves into position beside the gate.

Marina looks toward the timer, and I can see her focus snap into place.

A horn blows, and she charges through the gate like lightning.

The horse surges beneath her, dirt exploding from its hooves as they fly toward the first barrel. Marina leans into the turn, tight and controlled, barely giving the horse an inch of wasted ground.

They round the first barrel and power toward the second. The horse digs in, hindquarters dropping as Marina shifts with it, her body moving like she and the animal are one as she clears the third barrel.

Then she straightens for the run home.

Fast as a bullet.

The dirt sprays behind them as they tear across the arena, Marina low over the horse’s neck, hair whipping around her face, eyes locked ahead.

She commands that horse without even looking like she’s trying. The ride is smooth as hell. Effortless.

And, fuck, she looks good.

There’s a smile on her face when she crosses the line, and something about it catches me square in the chest. She looks alive. Like she never stopped competing.

The girls outside the gate erupt when the time flashes across the monitor.

They’re shouting and clapping, some of them practically bouncing on their toes.

Marina laughs, patting the horse’s neck as she circles back toward them.

The girls crowd around her the second she reaches the gate, peppering her with questions, and she answers them with that same easy confidence, pointing toward the barrels and explaining something about her turns.

They’re looking at her like she hung the damn moon.

I get it.

“Damn, she’s good.”

Micah’s voice beside me makes me glance over.

He’s climbed up beside me, forearms folded over the top railing, eyes following Marina as she works with the girls.

“Good? She’s fucking amazing.”