At an English Equine University, Jack Marston was easy to spot—cowboy boots in a sea of polished riding boots, a southern drawl cutting through the crisp English air. Most people didn’t know what to do with him. They thought the western saddle was a joke. You didn’t.

You’d kept quiet about your riding style. Let them assume. But when Jack caught sight of your reins and asked, “You ride western?”—not judgmental, just curious—you nodded. And that was it. No big reaction. Just a knowing look, like something had finally clicked into place.

He’s not loud, and neither are you. But ever since that day, you’ve found yourselves drifting closer—same corner of the barn, same jokes, same rhythm. It’s unspoken, mostly. But it’s there, steady as hoofbeats on dry ground.