An unwarranted tremble rocked me as Jett walked into the trailer. I shook my head, knowing my mind was playing tricks, awakening memories of loading Seraphim. Derek came and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and my eyes moistened at his touch, all the emotion I’d been trying to hold inside taking hold of me. I walked into the trailer to see Jett. I wrapped my arms around him. “It’ll be all right,” I whispered. “We’ll be fine. I promise.”
Jett snuffed and whirred against my arm, then lifted his nose and blew warm breath into my hair. We would be fine, he and I. We’d make it. I’d make sure of it.
Outside, I glanced up at the house, just like I had last summer, and wondered if Mom would come down to say goodbye, but I hadn’t seen her Volvo in the driveway all day. She was probably avoiding this moment. She hadn’t wanted us to go last summer and me leaving now would open up too many wounds.
“Let’s just wait a minute,” I said to Derek and Jason. I didn’t have to explain what I was waiting for, and they were kind enough not to ask.
Derek busied himself with sweeping up the drive and Jason said he forgot something in his truck. We waited fifteen minutes but she never came.
“We have to go now,” Jason said, coming up behind me.
I readjusted my ponytail, buying time, then nodded.
Jason and Derek didn’t say much as we got in the truck, and we remained quiet for most of the drive. In Oregon, I kept my eyes peeled for where the accident had happened, but as we passed, there was nothing. Not even a glitch in the landscape to mark where a life had ended. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the window, listening to a Canadian indie band that Jason had turned on.
Jason drove. Derek sat in the back with his cap pulled over his face, the seatbelt tucked under his armpit, his legs stretched across the backseat. I stared out at the passing landscape, the truck stops, the farms, the trees getting denser the farther north we drove. It had been over a month since the show at Del Mar, and even though I felt good about the round we’d jumped, I knew that it might have been just luck. I rubbed my shoulders. My body ached and I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. I’d accumulated a total of nineteen points so far and I needed one more point to qualify for the Gold Cup. This was my last show before the Gold Cup; I couldn’t screw up.
The competition would be the toughest to date. All the other riders had major advantages over me: some had multiple horses to ride, giving them more chances to win, and all had competed in more shows than me. They’d had time to earn their horse’s trust and hone their cues, to learn how each reacts under different circumstances.
I swallowed hard as I thought back to Vivian at Del Mar. I glanced over at Jason. “Do you think what Vivian said was true?”
Jason turned down the volume, throwing me a quick glance. “About what?”
I hesitated. I’d held it in for so long now but had to know what Jason thought. “Back at Del Mar. About my father.”
Jason didn’t respond, and I peered out the window, drawing my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “That he didn’t have what it takes. That I’m just like him?”
Jason laughed, a deep, resonant laugh. “Did you actually listen to that heartless excuse for a woman?”
“It is true, though, isn’t it? Dad never won. He always got close to winning, but he never won first. Not when it mattered.” I studied Jason. His eyes were fixed on the road. He glanced in his rearview mirror, lifting himself to check on Derek. I looked back too. Derek’s mouth hung open, drool trickling down from the corner of his mouth.
“Remember when we talked about the second lesson I needed to teach you, working on your mind, not just jumping?” Jason said. I nodded. “The asana practice is helping with that, helping you clear your mind, but you might be ready to understand how this ties in with your riding.” Jason paused for a moment, as if trying to collect his thoughts.
“Your dad was a great trainer. I always respected him—”
“But?”
“To win, you need to be comfortable with the void. You have to be able to get in the arena and let everything in your mind go.”
“What? Lose control?”
“It’s not about losing control, it’s about giving up control. There is a difference. You can’t control a hundred percent of what the horse will do, what the weather’s like, the footing, the crowd, whether a photographer will step out and snap his flash right as you’re going over an oxer. But you can give up what you’re thinking about. Trust the horse to be your partner, to let him sense what you’re thinking before you’re even aware you’re thinking it. Becoming one with the horse, instead of worrying about how you look, what the crowd thinks, whether they’ll judge you if you make a mistake. You have to let all of that go and ride as fast as you can. Let the horse go, without always checking him.”
It was so different from what my dad had always taught. Or was it? I was conflicted, not sure whose word I was supposed to trust. Was everything Dad had taught me wrong? “But I have to give him cues, don’t I?”
“You will—by letting yourself enter that void. You’ll send signals to Jett, and he’ll understand what you’re thinking even before you do. In the first round, you can get by with your regular ride. But in a jump-off—there’s no time for that. You have to be comfortable with a very different type of ride. Gallop, and trust your horse to make decisions too. The sport is so competitive now. You have to be single-minded about achieving maximum speed in minimum time. Trust Jett to do his job of keeping the fences up—yours is to get him to a good enough distance. Then trust. Don’t worry what other people have done or will do in their round. You focus on your next jump.”
I stared out the window, trying to process what he’d said.
“It’s risky, there’s no doubt about that,” Jason said. “You have to be comfortable with that risk—to trust Jett one hundred percent—but that’s why most riders fail to win. They can’t let go. They don’t trust enough.”
A sadness overcame me, my eyes blurred, and suddenly I was unsure if all the grueling training we’d done—the early mornings, the late nights—was enough.
Even though I’d only missed one summer of showing in Calgary, the changes that had taken place shocked me. The land surrounding the show park had not been impermeable to sprawling suburbia. Cookie cutter homes and strip malls had taken over farmlands, and part of me mourned the former countryside. Over a quarter of a century had passed since the Southern family held the first tournament in 1976, back when vast open space and farmlands surrounded the newly formed center. Thirty years later, Spruce Meadows had established itself as a premier venue, recognized as the largest annual international sporting event held in Canada.
Derek read the newsletter with facts about Spruce Meadows, fascinated. “Did you know the shows attract crowds greater than at any Canadian football game—annual attendance is almost a half a million fans!”
How many would be here this weekend? The thought terrified me.
Once Jett and our supplies were unloaded, I walked along the wide asphalt pathway toward the International Ring. The path wound among landscaped lawns and flower beds, past arenas, filled with sparkling white sand, flowers, and evergreen shrubs under bright jumps. Benches and iron lampposts, decorated with banners and planters that spilled over with orange and pink and fuchsia flowers, lined the walkways. Fathers clasped sticky toddler hands, children licked their ice-cream cones, teenagers giggled as they walked clad in shorts and tank tops, young riders ambled in britches and polo shirts as a sign of honor and fraternity—even if they weren’t showing here, they meant to. One day.
Horseshoes clipped and clopped on the pavement as grooms walked horses by, coats brushed to perfection gleaming in the sun. Horses with arched necks, excitement in the eye, each telling their own story. This was Disneyland for horse people.
Above the empty International Ring, I sat on a steel bench in the grandstands, propping my chin in my hands. Only a handful of people milled about,
preparing for Saturday’s show. I scanned the ring. From up high, the arena resembled a squashed pentagon. The ring was surrounded by grandstands on three sides, the fourth and fifth edged with three glass-faced buildings. Each building boasted indoor and outdoor viewing levels, where sat many of the horse owners, corporate sponsors, and others with money.
The footing wasn’t the typical white sand but lush, blue-green grass. I walked down the steps toward the field, found an entrance, and wandered into the middle of the field. I spun around, letting my arms out like wings. The edges of the field appeared far away. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the ring. My thoughts turned to images of knocking every rail, crashing into a jump—failing. A cloud passed above me, then cleared. I shook my head, clearing the dark thought. We’d know soon enough.
On Saturday, the day of the North American show, the sun beat down on Spruce Meadows. It had stormed the night before, and I fretted over the grass footing. My first round, and all the others so far, had gone well, with no horses slipping. The crew worked diligently to replace the divots in front and after the jumps, the grass holding up after the downpour.
Only six riders made it into the second round, including me and Jett. In the warm-up, we’d done only a handful of jumps; Jett could tire easily in this heat. I rode Jett up the hill toward the International Ring after my warm-up for the jump-off. Jason walked alongside, informing me that he’d heard someone say it was thirty-two degrees Celsius. I didn’t know what that translated to in Fahrenheit, only that in my tall boots, white britches, button-down dress shirt, and red jacket—topped off with my black leather riding gloves and my hair up in a hairnet underneath my black helmet—I might as well have been about to ride off to battle demons in hell while wearing armor.
Derek greeted us at the entrance to the arena, his face the color of the British House’s red roof. “God almighty, I think it’s nearing ninety. Give me San Francisco fog over this any day,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the edge of his T-shirt.
I took a sip of water, too nervous to drink more, my shirt clinging to my skin like a wet sheet beneath my jacket.
“It’s just one class,” Jason said, tapping his fingers on the railing of the arena.
I’d never seen him more anxious.
“I got that,” I said, staring ahead at the massive jumps.
“Just ride like we talked about, and don’t worry about the result. Think about the ride. The moment. This is your chance to explore your and Jett’s potential, his scope. To see what you two are made of.”
“I need that point to get to the Gold Cup.”
“You’re in,” Jason said, scrutinizing me as if I should know. “There are only six in the jump-off, so worst-case scenario you get sixth, and that gives you the last point. You’re going to the Gold Cup no matter what.”
Right. I inhaled the smell of cut grass, its pattern resembling a freshly vacuumed Berber rug. I had to squint to see the jumps at the other end of the arena. They seemed about a mile away. The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, first in English, then a woman spoke in French.
“There must be over fifty thousand people here,” I said. A haze coated everything I looked at, like a film over my eyes.
“Are you feeling shy?” Jason asked. He smiled, raising his brow at me.
“I appreciate the humor.” Sarcasm layered my voice, but even though I chided, I wanted to run, to hide, to go back home. I wanted to ride Jett through the Nicasio Valley hills, with no one but the hawks and deer to keep us company. I asked Derek for my phone for the tenth time that day, praying that my mom would text or call, telling me she was there, up in the grandstands, ready to watch. There were no new notifications. I handed the phone back to Derek, wondering why I even bothered.
Vivian was at the halfway point now. My stomach turned watching her struggle as she rode Seraphim, her white britches glaring against Seraphim’s rust coat. Sera’s tail swished up and down, round and round, jerking high over every jump. I squinted. Vivian rode with too much spur, pushing her forward, yet yanking on Seraphim’s mouth to slow her, trying to gain control as they thundered past us toward the last combination, the whites of Seraphim’s eyes, her nostrils flared as she whipped her tail ferociously.
My hands trembled. I wanted to gallop Jett into the arena and yank the reins out of that woman’s hands. Seraphim needed more rein, less control. “That horse belongs with us,” I said through gritted teeth, clamping my slippery hands over Jett’s reins.
“It’s okay, B. Let it go,” Derek said.
My name echoed across the grandstands. A soothing song played in the background, and I wished they’d play something more upbeat. The gate swung open, and a woman nodded for me to go in.
“Wait! Is Uncle Ian here?” I asked, turning to Jason. His flight was delayed, and he’d texted that he was close, but I hadn’t seen him yet.
Derek’s eyes lifted to the stands above the clock tower entrance we stood in. “He’s here. Right above us. He’s videotaping. And Helena and Mai and their girls and Stuart are all there too. They’ve all come to cheer you on.” That news helped calm me. My own Team Brynn.
Jason gave me the Abhaya Mudra, and led us to the gate.
Jett didn’t need to be told to go forward. He was ready. We cantered in, a beautiful canter as if I were riding a rocking horse. I ignored the scowl that Vivian shot me as she passed on her way out. The crowd cheered. The music changed to an old Shania Twain song. As I cantered past the grandstands, laughter drifted toward me from a sponsor’s party. My anxiousness dissipated, my senses keen, clear, sharp, relishing every particle of air in my nose, tasting the smell of every blossom. I focused on the jumps, as if stalking my prey, staring each jump down, calculating, counting, planning.
“We love Brynn!” A girl waved a Go Brynn Seymour sign. It was the chubby girl who had been at Woodside—the one Vivian had insulted. I nodded at her, then trotted toward the mirrored skyscraper jump, the one that Jason worried about most. I stopped, giving Jett a chance to inspect it. He sniffed it, seemingly satisfied. I pushed Jett forward into a canter, his hooves thundering over the ground. The crowd cheered louder, the anticipation mounting. The buzzer sounded. I had forty-five seconds after the buzzer to start my round.
So we rode.
And it was breathtaking. Each jump better than the next. Jett was magnetic beneath me, as if each jump was meant only for us. I counted strides, followed Jason’s plan. The air swooshed past me, the brilliant jumps magnified a thousand times under the blue Alberta sky. Everything appeared as if it was in high definition, the haze gone. I blinked, and the double oxer materialized directly ahead, the mirrored towers reflecting the white clouds. A drop of sweat dripped into my eye.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then reopened them. The clarity vanished. I wanted to rub the sweat out, but I couldn’t reach up, needing to keep a hold of Jett. We were galloping too fast. And that’s when I knew we were in trouble. I heard the crowd again. Get in the void, Brynn! But I couldn’t find the blank space. Please God, I murmured, blinking. Then again. But I had slowed too much, having both pulled on the reins and concurrently spurred. I did what Vivian had done. I had to get Jett’s engine up. He wouldn’t get over otherwise.
I spurred harder, and yelled. “Get up!” But he couldn’t gallop faster. I hadn’t given him the chance. “Get up!” I yelled again, reaching behind to use my crop. But I was too late. The jump rushed at us. I had milliseconds.
First I saw the silver poles. I leaned forward over Jett’s neck to make sure my center of gravity shifted to give him as much chance as possible to get over, to help propel him, like military cavalry soldiers had done in battlefields, where jumping ditches and obstacles was a matter of life or death.
As I fell, I recalled the past eight months, all in one frame. I would lose. I’d known I would lose way back when Jason first sat in my office. I would get close, oh so close to the coveted blue ribbon, but I’d never win. I would always take s
econd. Or third. Or fourth.
Just like Dad.
Vivian was right.
A loud thud—Jett’s hind legs caught. I wanted to yell, but my voice caught midair. The world tumbled and my head came somewhere on the other side of the jump. Jett’s cry, an eerie sound, pierced my soul, then the resounding crash as all six rails of the jump fell, the heavy mirrored standards crashing down with them, assailing my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid to open them again.
I tried to roll like every rider is taught to, but my leg wasn’t coming loose, my foot caught in the stirrup. I yanked harder. It twisted, but it wouldn’t come out. Everything happened too fast. I panicked, knowing I was in the worst place possible. I wasn’t sure what to do. Then I remembered Dad’s voice, “Relax. Let go.” The same as Jason’s message.
I breathed in, releasing, letting go, and we came down, Jett on top of me, my leg torqued.
Everything went black.
I tried to sit as I came to, but a jolt of pain shot up my leg to my tailbone. Wincing, I fell on my side, grabbing for my knees, but each tiny move sent me into agonizing pain, electrical shocks running up every nerve. No air came. My chest burned. I felt like a fish out of water, gasping, clutching at my throat.
Jason’s face materialized, his eyes wide, his hand gently caressing my cheek. “Brynn!”
I stared at him, wide-eyed, as he came in and out of focus, trying to communicate that I couldn’t breathe.
“You’re winded. Relax. It’ll come.”
I closed my eyes while Jason massaged my back. My muscles loosened, like a brace releasing from around my burning chest. I sucked heavenly air into my lungs. I drank it in, then I rolled to my knees.
“Jett?” I tried to call out, but no sound came.
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