What thefuckjust happened?
One
Quinn
EightMonthsLater
“I just don’t understand why you’re moving to Idaho of all places,” my mother asked me, her voice carrying through the hallway as I packed everything I considered mine.
It wasn’t a lot. My horses, Charming and Hook, were already at the stables, so I was using their trailer to get my things from Big Sky, Montana, to Alpine Ridge. So far, I had my bed, dresser, boxes full of random things, my extensive wardrobe, and my riding gear—all shoved in the back of the trailer. All that wasleft were the odds and ends to make my new place just that—mine. My toy horse collection from when I was little, books that have become a part of my personality, my turquoise jewelry and earrings, all the ribbons I’d won growing up, and photos of the many pageants I was forced to participate in. On second thought, those could stay. Mom would want to keep those. She could have them.
“Because.” I sighed, passing the ribbons for a candle that was basically burnt to the bottom and placing it in the box. “That’s where Cash is, and he’s my trainer; it makes sense for me to call that home base.”
“But this is home.” She used her perfectly manicured finger to point at the floor.
I rolled my eyes. “And it always will be, but I’m traveling all over this year to make it to the NFR. It just makes sense to live where I train.”
She folded her arms, her lips tightening. My mother, Helen Compton, was a former Miss Rodeo America, but she still lived and breathed that life. She was a coach and guide for the upcoming Miss Rodeo Montana’s, getting them to the Miss Rodeo America pageant that took place in December during the National Finals Rodeo, the same place I was trying to get to. Her hair was still teased to perfection, the curls cascading down her shoulders with the perfect wings by her ears. All she needed was a hat with a crown and some fancy jewels, and you’d think she was still Miss Rodeo America. I loved my mother; she wanted the best for me, but for her…the best was following in her footsteps. She tried when I was a kid, but when I enjoyed the horsemanship portion more than anything and leaned that way in life, wanting nothing more than to compete—well, that wasn’t what she wanted for me.
That was years ago. I was turning twenty-three this year, and if I was going to be one of the youngest barrel racers in the NFRthis year, I needed focus. And let’s face it, focus wasn’t going to happen if I stayed in this room, staring at all these photos and ribbons.
I needed my own place, my own drive…and that was in Alpine Ridge.
“We haven’t even met this man—” she began to argue.
“Yes, Mom, you have. He came here to watch me ride when I signed him, remember? Saddle bronc rider Cash Callahan? He’s kinda hard to forget.”
Cash and I had gotten closer than I was to my own mother in the year he’d taken me as a client. He actually seemed to care. When I injured my leg and hip last year, he was the one to stay with me and guide me through the healing process. He didn’t even seem worried that his only client wasn’t bringing in checks to pay him. Hell, he even paid for the use of the training arena. He stuck with me, and this year, he had more clients and even his own events to attend—but he still encouraged me to go for what I wanted. Cash Callahan was more than my trainer; he was my friend. He was family.
My mother straightened her back, her eyes looking towards the ceiling like she was trying to pluck a memory from the light bulb. “Oh yes,” she finally sighed, dropping her chin. “I think I remember him, handsome man, Southern, older, right? It would be nice if he came around every now and then.”
“Mom, he’s my trainer, not my boyfriend.” I reminded her, cringing at the thought. According to my mom, I should be in a serious relationship by now. She married my dad after she won America, at the ripe old age of twenty-two. “Trainers don’t normally come to Sunday dinners.”
“Neither do you.” She raised a single brow, her voice lined with clear disdain. “It’s been a while since you’ve joined your father and me for dinner.”
How many eye rolls were considered too many? How many times had I rolled them so far?
“Mom,” I sighed. “I’m normally traveling on the weekends.”
“Yes, but you could come home. It’s not like you’re gone. Now you will be.”
“Seven hours away is not ‘gone,’ mom.”
“She has a point, Helen.” My dad, the retired team roper Lance Compton, appeared in the hallway, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets as he peeked in the room. His gray hair was brushed back, his beard growing thicker, his emerald eyes that looked exactly like mine locked on me. He gave me a small smile, reassuring me that he was ‘on my side.’ “Seven hours isn’t far; she’s still in the same time zone.”
“Lance.” Mom turned, most likely shooting him a glare.
Where my mom was stern with me, my dad was gentle, but he always knew when to stay out of a conversation, and by the way his eyebrows shot up, this was one of those times. My mom would win whatever argument she was going to start.
He let out a puff of air. “Let me know if you need help, Pumpkin.”
“I will, Dad, thanks.” I gave him a wave before turning back to my mom. Her arms were still folded, her gaze still heavy on me.
Ignoring the ribbons that hung on my wall…again, I grabbed a stack of books that had been well-read, my comfort books.Black Beauty, King of the Wind, The Black Stallion—pretty much any book about a horse that came out when I was in middle school, I read it and loved it. I wasthathorse girl, and I was proud to say nothing had changed.
Mom’s eyes followed my hands, locking on my ribbons. “You’re not packing your ribbons?”
I didn’t look up from the stack of books on the bottom of the box, instead concentrating on the cover ofChosen by a Horse.Finally—after what seemed like forever—I met her gaze.
