“Not bad.” His mind wandered to Jo and their conversation. One he’d had to walk away from before he wanted to. “Nights out always have a way of ending early now. Must mean I’m getting old.”
“No doubt. Monday always comes too soon.” Steve waited until Trace was up in the saddle before stepping back. “Need anything else?”
“We’re good. Thanks.”
“In that case, I’m gonna, uh, take my lunch.” He glanced around quickly, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be back after lunch.”
Trace shrugged as Steve hurried off. Barely ten in the morning and the man was all gung ho for a break. He led Lad over to the practice arena, where Red had set up an obstacle course in the middle.
Red waved him over to the side where he was sitting on the top of the metal gate, his boot heels hooked into the second bar. “Finally. Get done playing detective?”
“Fuck off,” Trace said good-naturedly. He had a horse under him and he was getting paid to ride. Nothing could kill his mood now.
More serious, Red asked, “You checked the tack out, right?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.” He gave Red a long look. “I’m not crazy.”
“Didn’t say you were. Least, not this time. Take a few laps outside, then we’ll get to work. And don’t make me yell—I’m not in the mood.”
Trace flipped him the bird, but a smile curved his mouth as he and Lad started their warm-up lap. The guy could be a Grade A dick sometimes, but he knew his horses like nobody else in the business.
Lad was in a spirited mood, no shocker there, and Trace had his hands full keeping the horse on task. But that was the beauty of his chosen mount. When called on to stand perfectly still, those in the arena would recognize both the training and the talent. Keeping a docile mare who walked into the ring half asleep in a hold was no big feat. But a gelding with energy to kill and a desire to run free? The ability to harness that power and attention into the task at hand was what people had paid Red big bucks for in the past.
And if Peyton had her way, they’d pay the M-Star handsomely for the privilege to work with Red now. Or to buy a horse trained by the M-Star staff, overseen by Redford Callahan.
Brilliant.
“You’re slacking, Muldoon! He’s about to—”
Red’s words were drowned out by the buzz in his ears as Lad bucked and sent him flying. He forced himself to relax a moment before his body hit the ground; the impact was jarring but not bone-breaking. A novice would try to gulp in air, gasping harder and harder when he couldn’t catch his breath until he passed out from the effort. Trace knew better. He stared at a pinpoint in the sky and waited quietly for the roaring of his blood to stop and his nerves to return to normal before taking a slow, steady breath.
He was almost back to normal when Red’s mug appeared above him. “Nice work, Ace.”
Trace said nothing. Breathe in, breathe out. Deep and steady.
Red sat down beside him and waited silently, knowing the drill. When Trace finally shifted to his stomach, resting one cheek in the dirt, Red spoke.
“What the fuck were you thinking? You can’t just let your mind wander with a horse like that. This isn’t a kid’s pony ride.”
“Bite me,” Trace wheezed. Though his breathing had returned to normal, residual adrenaline and the physical beating he’d taken kept his voice hoarse.
“I think the ground already did that. Anything feel off?”
Trace slowly flexed and relaxed the muscles in his arms and legs. “Nothing so far. Let me stand up.” Red held out a hand, but Trace ignored it. After dusting off the worst of the dirt, he twisted his torso and stretched his arms back. “Feels okay. Is Lad fine?”
“Yeah. He definitely won that round. You know the deal. Back up.” Red waved a hand and Steve walked by with Lad.
Trace took hold of the halter and gave Lad a long look. “Son? Not okay.”
Lad’s eyes half-closed, as if ashamed of his behavior. Trace wasn’t fooled. He’d do it again in a heartbeat if he could get away with it. Lad didn’t mind a rider, but he needed one with a stronger head, stronger will than his own. Otherwise, he’d take the rider to Canada and back for fun, just because he could.
“If that’s how you’re gonna handle yourself in two weeks, my reputation is screwed.”
Trace rolled his eyes and settled one boot in the stirrup, hauling himself up and settling down to the comfortable sounds of creaking leather. “I think your reputation can take the hit.”
“Can yours? How about Peyton’s?”
Instantly, Trace regretted the comments. “Sorry.”