He grew up on a horse and never quite got off.

Played polo everywhere that mattered — long enough to know who’s worth knowing and what’s worth keeping. He’s the reason Chica Chukkers exists at all, though he’d never say it that way.

He’s Gigi’s horse whisperer.
Makes the mares listen. Reminds her—without saying much—why she loved to ride in the first place.

Now he moves when the horses move.

He comes in late.

No one hears the truck, but by morning the south field has filled itself again. Fourteen extra horses, already settled.

By the time the house wakes, he’s in the kitchen. Coffee made. Something simple on the counter. A jar of dulce de leche left open like he was never gone.

He should stay longer.

But the road is already waiting. So he goes.

And then, on the return—he lingers. Long enough for homemade pizza, a proper salad, and the kind of laughter that only happens when no one is in a hurry.

He doesn’t belong to one place. But he circles back. And when he does, he stays just long enough to matter.

From time to time, something turns up in the tack room—left behind without comment. A pair of alpargatas. A belt worn in just the right places. Occasionally a set of head collars, better than what was there before.