“Sorry about all that,” her husband said after the car had disappeared, “this situation has been tough on her. On everyone actually. We lost a lot of good leather in that tack room. And with the Barrington coming up so soon . . . let’s just say we’re all extra tense.” “Fortunately there was no loss of life,” was Rosco’s quiet response. “Human or equine.” Todd regarded him, shifting his weight as if in pain. “You’re right, of course. What was I thinking?” Then he shook his head as though Rosco’s remark had finally sunk in. “We competitive riders tend to forget everything except the next show, the next event. Anything that causes even minor setbacks—damage to a lucky saddle, for instance—is a problem, and we act out accordingly. The days surrounding a major competition can be downright ugly; nerves are frayed; tempers are continually on edge. I’ve heard the world of professional yacht racing is the same, although I don’t have any firsthand experience since most of my life has been devoted to the fickle business of getting big and contrary beasts to run and jump as if they were circus-trained poodles.”
