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She shifted her gaze, looking toward the garage—and saw a blank space in the lineup of cars. Mom’s SUV was gone. And maybe—she squinted but couldn’t be sure—maybe Dad’s bike?
She hadn’t heard anybody leave, but if they had ... no smoke.
Knowing what would improve her mood and reset her outlook, Gia dug a well-worn pair of boots out of the closet.
~oOo~
Gia’s family had always had horses—one for each of them, and sometimes a foster or two as well, if Len and Tasha, who’d fostered horses for the Longmeadow Rescue Ranch as long as Gia could remember, were full up at their place.
At the moment, they had no fosters, and only three horses.
Dad hadn’t done much riding since he’d been shot, way back when Gia was a baby, but he’d had a horse, and he’d saddle up for an easy ride through their woods, until about five years ago, when arthritis and other issues stemming from that long-ago, horrific injury made mounting onto a saddle too hard. George, his aging roan Tennessee Walker, had lived his last three years in retirement, contentedly grazing the fields, and died sleeping in his stall.
Mom didn’t ride much, either, anymore, and her chestnut Quarter Horse mare, Jezebel, wouldn’t tolerate any other rider. That lady had a very clear sense of her boundaries and no compunction whatsoever about using force when necessary to protect them. Gia figured if Mom went much longer without saddling her, Jezzie would tell her to fuck entirely off the next time she tried.
Gia loved that cranky bitch.
Bo’s mare, a beautiful buckskin Walker named Roach (Bo really enjoyed The Witcher—books and games especially. He had some notes for the creators of the TV series.) was Jezzie’s opposite in personality. Mares had a tendency to be persnickety, but Roach was extremely chill. She loved Bo best, but she’d accept any rider without complaint. When she had a little kid on her back, she adjusted her speed and gait accordingly. Mares were also smarter, in Gia’s experience.
Gia’s horse was Vlad—a gorgeous, solid black Thoroughbred gelding retired from the track at the ancient age of three years. His racing name had been (still was, officially) Dracula’s Kiss. He’d never won a race, but he’d placed four times.
Now eleven, he’d been Gia’s since high school. He was a gift from her parents for her seventeenth birthday, right around the time she’d been ready to have a horse again after Dickens, her chestnut gelding, had broken his leg in their last barrel racing event the year before. Her parents had thought she’d return to the barrels on Vlad, and she’d practiced with him some in their ring, but Vlad would have had to be intensely trained to barrels, and Gia had lost the drive for the sport. The sound of Dickens’ leg going would echo in her mind until the day she died.
But Vlad was an absolutely fantastic horse and a very good boy. He was trained to English riding, but he’d taken easily to Western as well. Gia rode both ways, and had competed at the Young Jumper level for English riding. She preferred Western overall.
Vlad loved to run, he loved to jump, and he was a great mount for the shooting events she’d continued competing in through most of her undergrad years. A lot of retired racehorses were anxious and jittery, but Vlad was not. He was high-spirited. Gunfire didn’t faze him, nor did arrows flying over his head. He was disciplined in situations that required his discipline. But if you gave him his head on a wander through the woods, you’d best hold on, because Vlad would try to fly.
On this warm May midmorning, all three horses were grazing in the big pasture behind the barn. As usual, Roach and Vlad were together, grazing almost nose to nose, in the middle of the pasture. Jezzie was as far away from both the other horses and the barn as she could get, way out by the back fence and the treeline beyond it. If anybody but Mom had to collect her, they’d need a whole basket of apples and a real quick draw with the halter. And patience. Jezzie demanded she be properly seduced. Chestnut mares, man. They knew their worth.
Gia didn’t need to bother her mom’s horse. She stepped up onto the bottom plank of the fence, stuck her pinkies in the corners of her mouth and whistled the ululating tone that was her call for Vlad.
His gorgeous, gleaming black head flew up at once, and he whinnied. She whistled again. Vlad spun around and sprinted toward her, whinnying shrilly all the way, gaining speed until his long mane and tail soared behind him like banners. Amiable Roach trotted along behind him, happy to follow but in no especial hurry.
Vlad pulled up sharply just before the fence and high-stepped the last few feet, no longer whinnying but nickering low, a sound like an equine purr—exactly what it was. Vlad’s love language. He came right to Gia and dropped his big, beautiful head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Hey, baby boy.”
In answer, he tilted his head and rubbed against hers, hard enough she’d have fallen over she hadn’t been holding onto him.
She hadn’t seen her boy since Christmas. People said horses were stupid, and okay, they weren’t in the animal chapter of MENSA. But they knew people. They knew whom and what to trust, and whom and what to avoid. A horse was slow to trust, but if you earned one’s loyalty, you had it for life.
“You want to go for a ride, baby boy?” Gia asked, giving Vlad a kiss on his velvety black snout.
He threw his head up and whinnied as if he’d never before heard such a great idea.
~oOo~
She brought Vlad into the stable, tied him in the aisle and brushed him until his coat was so shiny she could almost check her reflection in it. Then, after a snack of apple slices and baby carrots, she went to the tack room.
Though she was dressed for Western riding, in jeans and her old, shit-kicker cowboy boots, Gia followed a sudden impulse and unwrapped her English saddle and tack. It had been five years since she’d put this saddle on Vlad’s back, and she had to pull a dusty file from the back of her head to make sure she got the fastenings right, but muscle memory is the kind of memory that digs in. She knew what was wrong even while she was refreshing her knowledge about what was right.
She couldn’t find her riding helmet, but oh well. She intended only to do some laps around the ring, go over those jumps a few times, and then take him out to run through the open field. If somehow she fell, she knew how to land.
When her beautiful boy was fully dressed, she led him out of the stable and into the practice ring.
Her mom had turned the paddock into a practice ring when Gia was about seven and starting to get serious horse fever. Back then she’d had a Welsh pony named Matilda (RIP), and she and Matilda had entered their first barrel races together. When Gia had learned about English riding and jumping, Mom had asked some of the Horde to build jumps. Dad had been away back then, and the whole club had tried to fill the hole he’d left. Uncle Show most of all, but the others, too. It had taken the whole club to even come close to filling the empty space where her daddy belonged, and even so, they hadn’t been enough.
But they’d supported Gia’s interest in horses and competition. She’d not competed even once without a row of leather in the stands to cheer her on. They’d celebrated her victories and cushioned her defeats.
