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stopped Coronado and watched Mr. Gorton get out of his Porsche and stand in front of it, leaning on the hood. He’d parked so close to the barn I wondered if Grandmother had promised him a preferred parking spot inside. I was sure he was looking at me. He wanted me to know he was here, riding what he called his horse.
    Owners didn’t belong at the in-gate. At WEF, some of them stood there for everybody to see—and to put more pressure on the riders. Maybe that’s what he wanted to do now. No way Caroline Atwood had just up and told Mr. Gorton, in time for him to blow over here from Palm Beach, that I was riding Coronado this morning. Maybe she had, or maybe it was someone else at our barn. And maybe he’d just shown up, unannounced, to see his horse.
    Blinders, I told myself.
    So I didn’t acknowledge his presence, not even with a nod, just turned Coronado back toward the course, stopped to show him a couple of the jumps. The next time around, still warming him up, I let him out a little so that he could get his legs underneath him while I made sure I remembered the course that Daniel had set up for us.
    I made one last stop where Daniel was standing with the grooms.
    “Do not focus on the one your grandmother calls a horse’s ass,” he said, lifting his chin toward Gorton. “Just your horse.”
    Just get around the first time clean.
    Then I was into the first jump and then the second, taking it slow. When Sky and I were in the jump-offs that would determine the champion horse among those with clean first rounds, when we were really busting for speed, when we had it all going on, when I felt in perfect sync with my legs and hands, keeping her on her hind end, I would take out strides on our lines between the jumps, knowing that even a half second could make all the difference.
    But I wasn’t doing that today on Coronado.
    Show that man you can get around clean.
    Show everybody.
    Trust the horse and have the horse trust you and screw all the rest of it, including Steve Gorton.
    We got around clean. No rails. On the second-to-last jump, I gave Coronado a bad distance, got him too close, and he clipped it with one of his hind legs. But he adjusted. Then we cleared the last one with ease.
    I patted his head again and said, “Such a good boy,” trying to channel Mom. Holy crap, I thought, maybe we really could do this, and my deep exhale broke into a smile.
    I turned the horse so I could see Daniel’s reaction. He was standing near the last jump now, arms crossed in front of him, shaking his head.
    He was not smiling.
    “What?” I said, walking Coronado over to him.
    “If you’re going to ride the horse scared, maybe we do need to find another rider,” he said, making certain Mr. Gorton could hear.
    Before I could respond I heard the door to the Porsche slam and Steve Gorton put the car in reverse, spraying gravel as he turned it around, and was gone.

THIRTEEN
    Daniel
    “I DIDN’T KNOW I was on the clock,” Becky said. “And thanks for calling me out in front of that guy. He must be so proud that I’m part of the team.”
    “We are all on the clock,” Daniel said to her. “And today is not about the owner. It is about the rider.”
    Becky was still on Coronado, and she turned the horse to walk him out after his round. When she finished, Mrs. Atwood had joined Daniel in the ring.
    Now she got off and handed the reins to Emilio.
    “Did you tell Mr. Gorton that I was riding?” Becky said to her grandmother.
    “Why in the world would I do that?” she said. “I try to be in that man’s company as little as possible.”
    “Whatever,” Becky said, then turned to Daniel and said, “I wasn’t going to push him, no matter who was watching me ride.”
    “No one asked you to push him,” Daniel said. “But why ride this horse as if the two of you were pulling a carriage?”
    “It was a solid first ride and you know it,” she said. “You both know it.”
    “It was a careful ride,” he said.