Certain men should be required to wear a sports bra when riding.
That’s what I was thinking as I boosted an overweight guy onto Fawn, a stout quarter horse mare who could carry him without straining anything. Although she did let out a little grunt of protest when he plopped onto the saddle. His parts bounced recklessly. And by parts, I mean man boobs. Moobs.
I’d read a recent study that said riders could throw their horse’s balance out of whack if they didn’t wear the right undergarments.
I couldn’t unsee the moobs, but I could ignore them as I mounted my horse—correct undergarments in place—and set off for the relative cool of the woods. Here it was, late August in Missouri and there was no sign of the heat letting up or rain coming down.
Unfortunately, there was no sign Winterlight Farm would discontinue public riding anytime soon, either.
The girl behind me waved. Lisa was about my age and the most confident of the group. She rode a petite gray mare with black mane and tail named Oreo. I smiled and returned my attention to the trail. Guiding five inexperienced customers is not my favorite way to start the day, but it’s not like I have a choice.
Nope. According to the mysterious trust fund set up by my absentee parents, Viola Parker—me—must keep a job for one full year before I turn thirty. And, get a glowing letter of recommendation at the end of it. Not only that, I wasn’t to know the contents of the trust until the year was up. So, I could be wasting my time out here in God’s country. Otherwise, I’d still be back East competing the top jumpers for blue-ribbon crazed owners with more money than sense.
Well, maybe. Truth is, it’s unlikely anyone back there would hire me again.
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