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when I slip on her halter and we walk to the barn with ease. But she pauses when we get to the open stable doors. She is worried, until she sees Jack.
    â€œWell, look what the cat drug in,” Jack says, walking toward Poco. “Ready for civilization?” He scratches her under her chin, and her fear eases. “May I?” he says, reaching for her lead. I don’t resist either.
    Speaking softly, almost hypnotically, Jack leads her toward the stall. Every stall in the barn has a private, outdoor paddock. Luxury barn, luxury perks. The door from her stall to her paddock is closed, but the floor inside is lined with fresh straw. The water bucket is filled; there is hay in her feeder, and sweet grain is waiting in a big, metal bucket. “Check out your new digs,” he says. Poco follows him in without a trace of hesitation.
    It’s quiet in the barn. No one else is around, so when Jinx kicks the wall of his stall, I jump like a jackrabbit. Jack laughs. “He smells the sweet grain—oats, corn, and molasses,” Jack says. Jinx smells Poco, too, and whinnies. Poco’s eyes widen, and she answers. It’s as close as she’s been to another horse since the auction. I want to warn her, Jinx is not her friend. But time will be her teacher.
    â€œPick up the bucket,” Jack tells me. “Give her a taste.” One bite and Poco forgets there is anything in the world but food. She’s never had anything so delicious. “Home sweet home,” Jack says, and from the way she’s eating, it’s clear Poco agrees.
    We decide to give her a little time alone while staying close by to keep an eye on her. Some horses panic in small spaces, and Poco’s a wild card.
    â€œLet’s take a closer look at Peggy’s saddle,” Jack says. I am hoping it’s just a little damp, but the pricy Stubben Jack carries on his arm is still dripping wet.
    â€œCan we save it?” I ask. Poco calls to Jinx, and, this time, he responds. I wonder what they’re saying.
    â€œSome people cure their leather in the bathtub,” he says. “I can’t see Lex being satisfied with that. He’ll want something new, but we’ll salvage it just the same. If we can stop mold from setting in, someone will want it.”
    Makes me wish I rode English like Peggy. She looks so sophisticated in her khaki jodhpurs and black show jacket. Even her tall, black boots and helmet look expensive. And, of course, they are.
    â€œWould a hot blow dryer help dry the saddle?” I ask.
    â€œOnly if you want the leather to crack,” he says. I wonder if there is anything Jack doesn’t know about horses and riding. “We’ll towel if off as best we can, then air dry it with a fan for a couple of weeks. With a little luck, some patience, and a lot of leather conditioner, it’s possible.”
    We go through half a dozen towels, then place the damp saddle on a barrel shaped rack to help it hold its shape. We move the rack into the stable office at the back of the barn. “Climate controlled,” Jack says smiling, “better for the leather. We’ll start conditioning it with leather treatment tomorrow.”
    â€œManley!” A deep, angry voice thunders through the barn, and though we’ve never met, I know it has to be Lex Stockton. Jinx lays his ears back and tries to bite the big man’s arm as he walks by. I brace for what he is about to say, but nothing could have prepared me. When he bursts through the office door, Peggy is with him.
    â€œThat’s her,” Peggy whimpers. Her face is swollen, and I can tell she’s been crying. “She left the saddle outside. I wouldn’t….” Peggy winces as her father’s hand closes around the flesh of her arm. She’s wearing what looks like a nightgown. Mud covers her sneakers, and she shivers under a paper-thin Imperial Enterprises windbreaker.
    â€œWho owns the saddle?”