3
Jocelyn
Ihad the best friends. Though we met once a week under the guise of a sewing circle—we really needed to come up with a different name, since “sewing circle” reminded us of our grandmothers, and none of us, not even Nicole, who held the title of matriarch of the group, was over the age of thirty-five—this week the girls insisted on not unearthing a single tomato-shaped pin cushion in lieu of helping me study how not to make a fool of myself out in the country.
As any good SoCal girl would, we’d started with old blockbuster Wild West films. John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Sam Elliot—they all taught me that, as Amanda so eloquently put it, “Cowboys could rev a woman’s engine with genuine horsepower.” But their charismatic charm and ability to mount a moving horse, ride while handling a sizable weapon, lasso a cow while riding at fast and furious speeds, and use a horse’s rump to vault into a saddle were way more advanced than I’d ever aspire too.
YouTube tutorials of ten-year-olds ended up being more in my lane.
Step one. Groom the horse.
Curry comb in circles first to bring up the dirt. Hard brush using flicking motions. Soft brush to polish the coat. Who knew horses were as high maintenance with their hair care as I was with my natural curls? Also, something about a hoof pick that looked more like a prison shiv to me, and frogs in their feet. Considering the power behind a swift kick, I was kind of holding out hope one of the ranch workers would give my horse its pedicure for me.
Step two. Saddle and bridle the horse.
I’d printed off a diagram with all the parts labeled. Stirrups, cantle, Blevins, pommel, skirt, seat jockey, and half a dozen more. The thing had more layers than a debutante at a Southern cotillion. Besides the stirrups, which I learned to mount by putting only my left and never my right foot in, I focused on the horn. We all had a good laugh over imagining if the thing really made a sound like a car horn and how fun that would be. I filed the horn underthing I will be clinging to for dear life so I don’t fall off and get trampled to death.
Step three. Mount and ride.
Find a mounting block so you don’t need the flexibility of a ballerina to get your foot in the stirrup from the ground. Remember left foot only! Swing right leg over the back of the horse and lower your seat. Betsy’s advice of heels down and chest out was preschool stuff compared to the adolescent YouTube experts. No, according to them I had to be aware of my entire body. Chin up. Eyes trained where I wanted the horse to go. Shoulders back. Spine straight but not stiff. Elbows in and not flapping like a rendition of the chicken dance. Control with my seat and thighs. Pressure from my knee through my calves. And, finally, heels down.
Forget patting my head and rubbing my stomach. These girls sitting astride their sleek ponies were the princesses of multitasking.
The familiar nerves I got before a test or presentation churned in my belly as I turned off I-5 and pointed my car west. A little farther north and I could be soaking in the Pacific in some of the hidden coves of Big Sur. Instead, I pressed my foot to the accelerator and prayed the earth was taking a good week-long nap at least. Along with horseback riding, I had also looked up the Double B. Turned out their land rested right above the San Andreas Fault. Made me wonder if Mr. Whalen was hoping for a little practice in a crisis situation as well as oiling our team’s cogs.
The flow of eighty-mile-an-hour traffic from the interstate cut to half, and the four straight lanes I’d cruise-controlled through slimmed to two. The more distance I put between me and the five, the more it appeared I’d traveled back in time. The bustle of traffic and congestion of strip malls gave way to wide-open spaces painting green and gold across sloping foothills. Occasionally a house dotted the landscape, but it almost felt as if I could be the only person in a fifty-mile radius.
The tightness in my chest loosened with each sweep of my eyes over the rolling horizon. I’d never considered myself claustrophobic in the city before, but then, I’d never been able to fill my lungs quite so much either. A peace settled around me, as if taking up residence in the empty passenger seat. I almost wanted to tell it to buckle up, but I knew as well as the next person that feelings such as tranquility were as fragile as dandelion seeds. One swift breeze could dislodge them to dance in the wind.
“At the stop sign, turn right.”
I followed the GPS’s robotic voice, steering through a wooden crossbeam the size of small redwoods with two intertwined Bs burned into the planed surface in the center. A long dirt drive wreaked havoc with my suspension, and I made a mental note to get an alignment done on the car after the trip.
Two Teslas and a Mercedes were parked side-by-side, and I joined my Kia to the other vehicles which, if machinery had egos, would be suffering from an inferiority complex from the Dodge Dually casting them all in shadow.
A blue-eyed dog bounded to my door. I opened it with care so as not to bump him, and he wedged his head through the opening, settling his slobbery chin on my thigh.
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest welcoming committee there is.” I scratched behind his ears, and he looked up at me with hearts in his eyes.
I’d never believed it before, but love at first sight was real. That is, when the object of your instant affection was a dog. Who knew I’d be such a sucker for a pair of startling blue eyes? I flipped his tag around to read his name.Scout.
“I wonder what Molly would say to getting a dog. What about you, Scout? Want to hide in my bag at the end of the week?”
He placed his paw on my leg, so of course I took that as a yes.
“Every good cowgirl needs a side-kick, right? You’ll help me look good this week?”
He barked, and I gave his ear another good scratch. As I’d learned, looking the part was half the battle in fitting in. So instead of boho-chic or conference room ready, I’d donned a pair bootcut Levi’s and a buffalo plaid cotton-blend top. I’d tied the ends in a knot that rested against the not-Cowboy-cliché buckle. This was a working ranch, after all, not the rodeo. I stepped out of my car and looked around.
“Jocelyn. Good. You’re here.” Donald’s words were punctuated by the sound of clanking metal.
I tried not to let my eyes widen at the sight of him. Not only did he have actual spurs on his fancy cowboy boots, but the chaps encircling his legs looked like he’d killed a couple of sheep and slid his lower extremities through their carcasses. Not to mention his cowhide vest or the Stetson with the tag still on like he was the High Noon version of Minnie Pearl.
“What in the world are you wearing?” I tried to hide my amusement behind my hand. Really, I did. Could I help it if the man looked so ridiculous I couldn’t hold in my laughter?
Donald looked down at his shiny boots. Not to say mine were work worn, but at least they were appropriate footwear for the occasion. The only place Donald would fit in was with the bull rider clowns. “Tonya assured me this get up was what all ranchers wore.”
“Aw, honey.” Tonya needed to learn the way to the top wasn’t by shoving others down for her to climb on. “Please tell me you have an actual pair of pants on under those furry chaps.”
