Chapter One
“So did you ride after school? How is that horse of yours?” Dad asks me.
We’re eating dinner, which I made—chicken with feta cheese and green peas on linguine.
Learning to cook was one of my New Year’s resolutions. “He’s doing well,” I say.
“Walking and trotting without a limp. I’m taking it slow with him though. Letting
that tendon heal.”
“Well, it was just as well you decided to retire from jumping when you did,” Mom
says. She points at her dinner plate with her fork. “Franny, this is delish.”
“Don’t know where she got it from, but our girl can cook,” Dad says approvingly.
“This recipe is definitely a keeper.”
“Good. Glad you like it.” I’m not surprised he does—the dish is way too salty, which
is exactly what his blood pressure doesn’t need. I’d forgotten how high in sodium
feta is. “I wouldn’t have had time to show this year anyway,” I say, twirling my
fork on the pasta. “Even if Buddy wasn’t lame. The amount of homework I have is insane.”
“Not to mention your love life,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “Every time I see you,
you’re texting your girlfriend.” He’s grinning though. He adores Leah. He and Mom
both do.
“What bothers me,” Dad says, “is that your horse got to retire before I did. I mean,
I’m pushing seventy.”
“Sixty-seven,” I correct him quickly. He’s ten years older than mom, and she was
forty when I was born, so they are kind of old for parents. But seventy ? That’s well
into grandparent age.
“And Buddy is still in his teens.”
“Almost twenty,” I say. “Which is getting on for a horse.”
Dad ignores me. “And he has a sore ankle. I had a stroke! Shouldn’t that trump a
sore ankle?”
“Sore fetlock ,” I say, even though I know he’s well aware that horses don’t have
ankles. “And you didn’t have a stroke, Dad. You had a transient ischemic attack.
Which isn’t a real stroke. Just a warning.” What I don’t say is that a third of people
who have a TIA go on to have a stroke within a year. He’s well aware of that too.
“Who’s the doctor here?” he says.
And then the phone rings. I start to get up, even though Leah doesn’t usually use
the landline, but Dad waves a hand at me. “Let the machine get it. Neither of us
is on call.”
I sit back down, twirl a fork full of linguine and chew slowly. Definitely too much
salt. Not good, considering the only reason I took over the cooking was to stop the
family reliance on takeout and make sure Dad ate healthier meals.
The phone rings and rings. Let it be Leah, I think, let it be Leah. I picture her
face—her blue-green eyes, her silky brown hair, the deep dimples that appear when
she smiles, the way she covers her mouth with her hand when she laughs.
I was just with her, but I miss her already.
Leah’s family owns the farm where I keep Buddy now. Gibson’s Farm—or Buddy’s Retirement
Home, as Dad calls it. I was heartbroken when Buddy developed a limp right at the
start of last show season, but if he’d stayed sound, and we’d kept jumping and competing,
I’d probably never have met Leah Gibson. So that’s kind of a crazy thought. We’ve
only been together for a few months, but I’ve never felt like this about any other
girl.
No matter how much time I spend with Leah, it’s not nearly enough. Even when I’m
with her, I sometimes feel this ache, like I can’t get close enough, can’t hold her
tight enough, can’t kiss her long enough. I’ve had other girlfriends, but I’ve never
felt like this before.
It’s crazy and, to be honest, a little scary.
Just two hours ago, we were sitting on a bale of hay outside the tack room, cleaning
the school horse bridles and listening to the horses munch their oats. Leah’s brother,
Jake, was teaching a private lesson in the arena, and I could hear his voice—“Extended
trot doesn’t mean go faster, Brandy! I want to see longer strides, not speed! Contain
that
“So did you ride after school? How is that horse of yours?” Dad asks me.
We’re eating dinner, which I made—chicken with feta cheese and green peas on linguine.
Learning to cook was one of my New Year’s resolutions. “He’s doing well,” I say.
“Walking and trotting without a limp. I’m taking it slow with him though. Letting
that tendon heal.”
“Well, it was just as well you decided to retire from jumping when you did,” Mom
says. She points at her dinner plate with her fork. “Franny, this is delish.”
“Don’t know where she got it from, but our girl can cook,” Dad says approvingly.
“This recipe is definitely a keeper.”
“Good. Glad you like it.” I’m not surprised he does—the dish is way too salty, which
is exactly what his blood pressure doesn’t need. I’d forgotten how high in sodium
feta is. “I wouldn’t have had time to show this year anyway,” I say, twirling my
fork on the pasta. “Even if Buddy wasn’t lame. The amount of homework I have is insane.”
“Not to mention your love life,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “Every time I see you,
you’re texting your girlfriend.” He’s grinning though. He adores Leah. He and Mom
both do.
“What bothers me,” Dad says, “is that your horse got to retire before I did. I mean,
I’m pushing seventy.”
“Sixty-seven,” I correct him quickly. He’s ten years older than mom, and she was
forty when I was born, so they are kind of old for parents. But seventy ? That’s well
into grandparent age.
“And Buddy is still in his teens.”
“Almost twenty,” I say. “Which is getting on for a horse.”
Dad ignores me. “And he has a sore ankle. I had a stroke! Shouldn’t that trump a
sore ankle?”
“Sore fetlock ,” I say, even though I know he’s well aware that horses don’t have
ankles. “And you didn’t have a stroke, Dad. You had a transient ischemic attack.
Which isn’t a real stroke. Just a warning.” What I don’t say is that a third of people
who have a TIA go on to have a stroke within a year. He’s well aware of that too.
“Who’s the doctor here?” he says.
And then the phone rings. I start to get up, even though Leah doesn’t usually use
the landline, but Dad waves a hand at me. “Let the machine get it. Neither of us
is on call.”
I sit back down, twirl a fork full of linguine and chew slowly. Definitely too much
salt. Not good, considering the only reason I took over the cooking was to stop the
family reliance on takeout and make sure Dad ate healthier meals.
The phone rings and rings. Let it be Leah, I think, let it be Leah. I picture her
face—her blue-green eyes, her silky brown hair, the deep dimples that appear when
she smiles, the way she covers her mouth with her hand when she laughs.
I was just with her, but I miss her already.
Leah’s family owns the farm where I keep Buddy now. Gibson’s Farm—or Buddy’s Retirement
Home, as Dad calls it. I was heartbroken when Buddy developed a limp right at the
start of last show season, but if he’d stayed sound, and we’d kept jumping and competing,
I’d probably never have met Leah Gibson. So that’s kind of a crazy thought. We’ve
only been together for a few months, but I’ve never felt like this about any other
girl.
No matter how much time I spend with Leah, it’s not nearly enough. Even when I’m
with her, I sometimes feel this ache, like I can’t get close enough, can’t hold her
tight enough, can’t kiss her long enough. I’ve had other girlfriends, but I’ve never
felt like this before.
It’s crazy and, to be honest, a little scary.
Just two hours ago, we were sitting on a bale of hay outside the tack room, cleaning
the school horse bridles and listening to the horses munch their oats. Leah’s brother,
Jake, was teaching a private lesson in the arena, and I could hear his voice—“Extended
trot doesn’t mean go faster, Brandy! I want to see longer strides, not speed! Contain
that
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