Standing up, I brush the grass off my knees and glance down at the tombstone one last time before turning back towards the road.

It’s been almost ten years since my mother passed away from pancreatic cancer. She had a long and brutal battle with the disease, but in the end, we were able to hold her hand during her final moments on this Earth. Which was, indeed, both a blessing and a curse. I’d not wish that experience on even my worst enemy.

Stepping up on the wheel wells of the trailer, I reach one of my slender arms between the panels and give Achilles a rub on his nose. “Let’s go home,” I whisper, resting my forehead on the cool metal.

He acknowledges my voice, impatiently stomping his front right foot and shaking his large neck in agreement. Achilles is a four-year-old, dapple-grey Dutch Warmblood. In plain speak? He’s grey with sporadic white patches and a white mane and tail, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.

Sliding—not so gracefully—back down onto the ground, I wince at the pain in my backside. The doctors said I’d be able to do minimal work, so long as it didn’t require standing or sitting for an extended period of time, or any heavy lifting. So, basically, their guidance wasn’t helpful in the least.

Yanking the driver’s side door to my black Chevy open, I groan as my eyes fall onto what has become the bane of my existence. The donut pillow—a.k.a. the medically prescribed ass pillow I must carry with me everywhere, public places included, for the next two and a half months, despite its unique quality to embarrass the ever-loving shit out of me on a consistent basis. It’s ugly, it’s brown, and I absolutely loathe it.

After carefully positioning my ass onto the butt pillow so as not to aggravate my injuries, I turn the diesel engine over and pull out onto the highway.

Alberta is flat prairie land, and this time of year, it’s hot as hell. Thankfully, it doesn’t take me longer than fifteen minutes in my hot box of a vehicle before I’m making a right turn onto a long, gravel driveway—our driveway. When I reach the open gate to our property, my heart swells a little upon seeing the sign hanging above it.

Willow Bay Stables

Home.

My ass protests as the truck and trailer bounce down the winding driveway, and I curse out loud. Of all the injuries I could have gotten, I literally had to break my ass. The stupidity and embarrassment of it all seems like some sick punishment. Truthfully, I should have been home over a week ago. The doctors in Greece released me after only four days, and I was cleared to fly immediately. However, Achilles was not.

As you can imagine, it takes a great deal of time, planning, and—more importantly—money to fly an animal of his size around the world. Harlow promised he would wait and fly back with Achilles, but that was something I could not bear. Travelling was always hard on my equine best friend. Sometimes, it took him days to recover. I protested much like a child and refused to leave the country without him. Thus, here I am, nearly twelve days later, arriving home on the heels of my nationally televised loss and freshly battered from the magazine article that portrayed me as a petulantly ignorant young woman with a hot temper. While the latter may be true, I have and will always have the utmost respect for the sport and discipline of dressage. Even if I’ve become the number one outcast.

As I pull through a clearing of trees, the property comes into view. It’s exactly as I remember it—breathtaking. To the right side, on top of one of Alberta’s few rolling hills, sits the main house. Despite being only a single floor, it’s expansive in size. Daddy had it built to match the design of the existing stables, a mixture of stone rock face and logs, complete with a forest-green tin roof that is perfect for listening to the rain falling at night. A large porch wraps around the outside of the house, and steps lead down to the frontyard.

To the left side sits one of our barns. It’s the larger of the two, housing nearly twenty horse stalls, a full room of tack lockers, and an attached full-size indoor riding arena. Its most unique attribute, however, is the apartment loft. Just inside the large barn doors, painted green to match the roof, there’s a stairwell to the right, which leads up to a thousand-square-foot, fully furnished apartment, with windows that look out onto the pastures lining one wall. The best part about it is it’s mine. As a child, I was frequently sneaking out in the middle of the night to lie in the horses’ stalls or simply muck about in the barn. Finally, the year I turned sixteen, my father simply had enough and converted the existing hayloft into an apartment.

Farther down the road, there is a large outdoor riding ring, a lunging ring, and a series of turnout pastures for the horses. Behind those is the second barn. It houses only ten stalls and a feed room, and the upper floor is a hayloft. However, it too was designed to resemble its counterpart.

When I glance up at the house, I check my spine and find that it’s lacking the steel I need to face my family. I’ve been training abroad for nearly three years, rarely coming home—with the exception of Christmas—so something about my return seems as much cowardly as it does humiliating. After rolling through the excuses in my mind, I settle on the idea that it’s best I unload Achilles before advancing to the house.

After veering left, I put the truck in park outside the giant barn. I take a minute, glancing right and left, but I see no one. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t see much of anything. No horses. No people. Nothing. Which seems unusual, given that this is the barn usually boarded out to people and their horses. Taking advantage of the empty area, I slide out of the truck and make my way to the back of the trailer, where Achilles is moving around inside.

“Cool your jets, big guy,” I drop the tone of my voice, increasing the softness and coo through the panels.

My voice always changes when I talk to Chil.

After unlatching the hooks, I open the back of the trailer. The gentleman at the airport helped me load Achilles, and I forgot how heavy the gate is. When I reach past my waist, my lower back spasms. Reaching around to press against the screaming area causes me to lose my grip, and the gate crashes the remaining three feet onto the pavement. The sound of the gate echoes through the courtyard and out in the fields. Shit. Achilles neighs wildly as he stomps and shifts his weight nervously.

Certain that the sound scared him, I grip the side wall to steady myself before using it to haul my small frame inside the trailer to comfort him. “Easy, Chil,” I hum.

His ears twitch backwards at the tone of my voice. I touch him softly on his butt before moving my hand gently over his back towards his neck. His muscles ease under the recognition of my touch, and he swings his head to the left, straining to see my movements.

After pushing off the wall with my other hand, I hook my other hand under his neck and lean into him for support. “Sorry, big guy. Didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologize into his neck.

After unclipping the ropes from his halter, I attach the lead rope underneath his chin and rub his nose with the palm of my hand. We stand like that for a few minutes, his massive frame taking the weight of my smaller one until the pain in my back subsides. When I feel as though my strength has returned, I test it by pulling away from him and flattening my feet inside my cowboy boots.

No buckling.

No crying.

We’re good.

While pressing a finger into his front, I make a clucking sound with my tongue, and Achilles begins to back out of the trailer. He’s done this so many times that I’m certain he could nearly do it without any guidance from me. After looping the lead rope over his neck, I give him a quick kiss on the forehead and then walk towards one of the single-horse turnout pens. Achilles follows behind me despite the fact I’m in no way holding on to him.