Page 1

Chapter 1

Tess

Igrip Oliver's lunge line with white knuckles, my palm damp despite the crisp morning air. He circles me with an overabundance of energy, those four flashy white legs striking the ground in a rhythmic cadence. This is his first major show and I hope we both survive it.

"Easy, boy," I murmur, my voice low beneath the ambient chaos of the Pacific Northwest Jumper Invitational. Around us, horses and riders are warming up. A chestnut gelding passes too close to us, his rider's face a mask of pre-competition concentration.

Jane stands by the rail, her blonde hair caught in a ponytail, watching with the knowing eyes of someone who's seen me through two decades of equestrian triumphs and disasters. "He looks a bit fresh," she calls, the understatement hanging in the air between us.

"Fresh is one word for it," I reply, adjusting my grip as Oliver makes an unnecessary leap over absolutely nothing. "I'd go with 'possessed by demons,' personally."

The morning sun catches his gleaming bay coat, highlighting the ripple of muscles beneath. He's beautiful—I'll give him that—with his perfect white blaze running down the middle of hisface like a lightning strike. Beautiful and challenging in equal measure. I bought him three months ago, and each day is a negotiation between his raw talent and his determination to test every boundary.

I extend my arm, asking him to move out on the circle. For a moment, he complies, stretching into a surprisingly elegant trot that reminds me why I emptied my savings account for him. When he's good, he's very good.

"That's it," I encourage, feeling a flutter of hope. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today, he'll remember he's a show jumper and not a rodeo bronc.

A man leads a skittish mare past us. I see the moment Oliver notices her—his ears pinning flat against his head, nostrils flaring wide. I shorten the line immediately, my muscles tensing in anticipation.

"Heads up," I call to the man, who barely glances back. The mare tosses her head, whinnying as she passes.

That's all it takes.

Oliver freezes, plants his front hooves, and snakes his head around to stare at the retreating mare. I recognize the warning signs—the sudden stillness, the bunching of muscles across his withers—but I'm a beat too slow to react.

"Oliver, no—" The words barely leave my mouth before he explodes.

His back legs kick skyward with shocking force, and the lunge line burns through my gloved fingers. I should let go—I know I should let go—but some stubborn part of my brain insists I can regain control if I just hold on long enough.

Oliver bucks again, twisting in mid-air with an athleticism that would be impressive if it weren't so terrifying. The lunge line snaps taut, yanking me forward off my feet. My knees hit the dirt first, then my palms. But I still don't let go.

My face scrapes against the ground, and some primal instinct for self-preservation finally overrides my stubbornness. I let go of the line.

Oliver bolts, trailing the lunge line behind him like a victory banner. He thunders toward the gate, surprising a group of spectators who scatter like birds.

I push myself to my knees, tasting blood where I've bitten my lip. My once-pristine white show shirt is now a modern art project of dirt and grass stains. Pain radiates from my shoulder in dull waves.

Jane is at my side in an instant, her hands steady on my elbow as she helps me stand. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie, brushing ineffectually at the dirt coating my jodhpurs. "Just my pride."

"Your pride will recover," she says, practical as always. "We need to catch your demon horse before he destroys the entire showgrounds."

We exit the lunging area just in time to see Oliver tearing past the warm-up ring, spooking several horses and surprised looks from their riders. The show steward spots us and points accusingly in Oliver's direction, as if I might somehow not have noticed my horse running amok.

"I'm so sorry," I call to her, breaking into a run despite my protesting muscles. "We'll get him."

"This is what I get for buying a young horse," I mutter to Jane as we follow the trail of chaos. "I should have stuck with something steady and boring."

Oliver has now attracted a small audience of riders and spectators, some helpfully pointing in his direction, others simply recording the entertainment on their phones. Perfect. By dinner, I'll be trending on equestrian social media as a cautionary tale.

He disappears around the corner of the stable, the lunge line still trailing dangerously behind him. I pick up my pace, ignoring the throbbing in my knee. All I can think about is the line catching on something and Oliver panicking and injuring himself or someone else.

Jane and I round the corner, breathless, just in time to see Oliver charging toward the VIP parking area, where gleaming trucks and trailers worth more than my annual salary sit in neat rows.

"Oh no," I groan, picturing the insurance claims. "No, no, no."

We run even faster, my boots slipping slightly on the grass. My physical discomfort fades beneath more pressing concerns: Oliver's safety, the vet bills I can't afford, the possibility of him injuring someone.