The two men—dressed in show clothes, except for chaps—made their way to the barn. They stopped at the food wagon for a breakfast sandwich. Greta tugged along still not quite getting the walking on a leash thing. When they entered the barn Brad stopped and smiled. There was nothing quite like the morning of a show day. He stood for a moment watching the swirl of activity as horses were being groomed, manes braided or banded depending on whether you were showing hunt seat or western, and hooves polished so they looked like patent leather shoes. Young riders, dressed in sweats protecting their show duds underneath, nervous about their upcoming classes, rushed around attending to last minute details. Fidgety parents hovered, wanting to help but usually only getting in the way. Brad had always
