I still remember the look on the woman’s face. A half-smile somewhere between wistful and trying to look happy. But her eyes, tipped down at the outer corners, belied the attempted smile.

The look was envy, and I’d never seen it directed my way before. I’d worn it plenty though, usually when a fancy, new horse came to the barn or—let’s be honest here—a tall, leggy heiress walked by with no hint of saddlebags in her Tailored Sportsmans that she bought new instead of on eBay.