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That goes double for the ‘training’ he spends the afternoon doing with Samson. I was expecting to at least get a little spectacle out of the whole thing. You know, like getting to see a real live cowboy break a horse. Isn’t that what they call it? Sounds a bit barbaric, but hey, I didn’t make up the term.
Instead, the afternoon just goes on and on and on endlessly. And all Xavier does is walk up to Samson. Samson starts stamping his feet and backing away and then Xavier walks back. Sometimes Xavier will snort and throw his head around like a horse. He walks back and forth in a manner a little reminiscent of Samson himself.
Is it odd to watch a grown man pretend to be a horse all afternoon? No more than anything else that’s happened to me since I got here. I take it in stride fairly quickly.
What really surprises me is that Xavier doesn’t even try to touch Samson or corral him with a rope or make him run in a circle—none of the stuff I feel like I’ve seen cowboys do in TV shows or movies.
He just spends ALL afternoon approaching and then stepping away from the horse. Oh, and I can’t forget the really long stretches where he and the horse just stand still and stare at each other. Xavier’s stance is never aggressive like I might expect—he just… stands there.
It’s mind-numbing to watch. I sit in the grass and make daisy chains out of the long grass, think of all the thousands of things I could be busy doing if I were in New York right now, and dream of how I’ll start my comeback once I’m done with this godforsaken place.
Maybe I’m already pregnant and we can get this show on the road.
My hand goes to my stomach and my heart jumps to my throat at the thought. Holy God, how could I even—no, just no. I can’t even contemplate that whole thing until it’s a reality. If it ever becomes a reality, considering he hasn’t even slept with me aside from those first two times.
I look back at Xavier where he’s locked in another stare down with the horse and shake my head. I can’t make up my mind if I want to hurry up and get pregnant so this can all just be over or if… my mind flashes back to the pregnant mare. Growing a life… inside my body? For God’s sake, that sounds more insane than anything that’s happened yet, and being locked outside in a dog kennel feels pretty damn crazy.
What’s Xavier’s deal anyway? He just up and decided he wanted a kid one day? So then he watches the news and saw my dad and figured I was an easy target, or what? From the little Mr. Owens told me, they’d obviously done their research into me and my family history. But why me out of everyone he could have chosen? Was there really no one who would have willingly had his child? How the hell did that whole thing play out? I haven’t given it much thought because frankly, thinking about it all freaks me the hell out.
But the more I get to know him… it’s impossible not to wonder why? Why does he want a child? For some horse farm legacy? Theoretically he’s got a lot of money to be able to afford the big resort and do what he did for my dad, but the man is certainly not flaunting it if he’s got it. And as far as I’ve seen today, these horses are the rejects, abused, and losers that no one else wanted. Not exactly a racing legacy to pass on.
Maybe he was just lonely out here all by himself with no one but the horses to keep him company? Or he has a terminal illness and he wants to pass on a family name before he dies?
My gaze shoots up to Xavier where he stands, tall, broad-chested, and confident in the bright light of the blazing sun. No, I can’t imagine such a larger than life man ill. Not just that, but I can’t see him as the kind of man who would bring a life into the world only to then abandon it. He’s just too damn controlling for that.
I breathe out and close my eyes. I’m just the oven. Whatever he does with the bun is not really my concern. I mean, I would be worried if I thought he’d like, abuse it. I’m not a monster. But seeing how gentle he is with the horses and even with me sometimes… Anyway, I’m sure the kid will be fine.
And I can go back to living my own
life. Right?
I just… this was all a lot easier when it was in the abstract.
I fiddle with the grass and try not to give in to my more anxious thoughts. And Xavier just keeps at his inanities with Samson. After at least four more hours, which I can only guess at because I start mapping the sun’s progress across the sky since I don’t have access to a phone with a clock, Xavier finally says something I can’t hear to the horse. Then he backs up and eventually starts walking toward the gate where I’m tied up.
Right in time because I’ve got to pee like nobody’s business.
Except that after a brief break for lunch—which yes, he feeds me—and the bathroom, thank God, he’s dragging me back out for more work.
Turns out the afternoons are all about mucking out stalls. It takes fifteen minutes for Xavier to demonstrate.
I see how he keeps his giant, muscled physique in tip-top shape. He’s using a heavy-looking pitchfork to sift the clean hay to the back of the stall and then drag all the messed hay—read, hay that’s full of horse pee and poop—out of the stall to the middle of the stable. Then I get to shovel that into a wheelbarrow and haul it across the field to the compost bins.
I also now intimately understand what’s meant by the term ‘back-breaking work.’ It takes me what feels like an hour to do a single stall. I almost immediately develop blisters from using the heavy pitchfork in spite of the thick work gloves Xavier gave me.
“How often do you do this?” I ask breathlessly after hauling the damn wheelbarrow back for the second time. “Once a week?”
His mouth twitches in amusement as he calmly sifts the hay in Tornado’s stall. “Every day. Twice if a horse is messy. Pioneer is especially bad about stepping in his own mess and getting it in all his bedding.”
I just stare at him. “Twice a day…” He’s got to be kidding me.
But the way he’s standing, one arm propped on top of the pitchfork, implacable gaze fixed on me, it sure doesn’t look like he’s kidding. “This will now be your job. Once all the animals get used to you, you’ll feed and turn them out each morning, then clean out their stalls.”
I can’t help the involuntary step forward I take in protest. Or the words that spring out of my mouth. “That’s not what I’m here for.”
The only response I get is the lift of that damn eyebrow. Oh, so now Mr. Loquacious is going to go back to clamming up.
I lift my gloved hands and gesture all around us at the stinking barn. “I did not sign on to be some freaking ranch hand!” I toss my pitchfork to the ground for emphasis.
