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Rubbing my hands down my face, I groan and push myself up, walking to the window so I can pull back the curtains. There’s no terrace, and it’s a shame because on the third floor, I’m aligned with the tops of the trees, and the view is breathtakingly gorgeous. I can see the property. How far it stretches, how many trails wind through the woods, and the little fields where the animals roam.
To the left is a small set of apartment-looking things, and they’re a little run-down, so I assume they’re not extra rooms. It probably means the staff lives on-site. I wonder if they enjoy being so far away from civilization. I have half a mind to ask the kid, Phoenix, when he shows up with my tea. It feels cut off from the rest of the world here, even if I have plenty of bars on my phone, and I know it’s only a two-hour drive from the city.
I think mostly what scares me is the fact that out here, you have to think. It’s so quiet, and it’s so humble. There are no real distractions. You can’t walk out your front door and watch people arguing or hurrying to work or trying to elbow each other away from cabs and ride shares. There are no lines to get into or crowds to navigate.
There are just the trees and the wind and my thoughts.
I realize I’m sinking into another melancholy wave, and that’s the opposite point of this whole vacation, so I grab my suitcase and pull out my sneakers, then undo my braid and twist it into a topknot. I don’t really know what appropriate riding gear is, but I feel like my jeans will do just fine.
I take a quick glance in the mirror, and no, I’m not dressed to impress, but I think about Monty’s slimy smirk and feel satisfied with my choices. Besides, I know he won’t really care. He’s not looking at me thinking “wife,” and I’m a hundred percent okay with that. I don’t want him looking at me and thinkinganything.
Grabbing my bag, I pull some cash and my credit card out of my wallet and shove them into my back pocket before I snatch up the room key and decide that the best thing I can do is distract myself. There aren’t many guests here, if the parking lot is any indication, but there might be some. Maybe my weekend fling idea isn’t totally lost. Maybe I’ll meet some hot guy on the trail, who isn’t at all like Monty, and we’ll hit it off, and I’ll never have to think about guys who freak out about bedsheets ever again.
Making sure the room is locked behind me, I take the stairs down to the lobby and look around, feeling a bit lost. There’s no one at the desk now, but I can hear voices coming from the little lounge area, though I don’t investigate. Even if the man of my dreams is in there, I kind of look like a pathetic loner, and I’d rather wait until I’ve at least had a shower.
Knowing Sage and Flor are busy breaking in their new suite bed, and Monty is probably on the phone with someone whining about his precious sheets, I head out the front doors and begin the stroll toward the barn. I have no real intention of interacting with the horses, but I see a man sitting on a wooden fence—the same one in plaid from the lobby.
He has his hat on now, and in the sun, I can see a ruddy tan on the skin of his exposed arms and a gold wedding band on his left ring finger.
He spots me and hops down so he’s standing inside the fence. When I hesitate, he jerks his chin, inviting me over. He’s got a friendly smile behind his thin, well-groomed beard, and I appreciate that he doesn’t offer to shake my hand.
“You look nervous,” he tells me when I’m close enough to hear him.
“Am I that obvious?”
He laughs. “You wouldn’t be the first.” He has a slight accent—not Southern, more like Hispanic, and I remember from my history lessons in college that Mexicans were the original cowboys, not white dudes in tight Wranglers crooning about their trucks. “My name’s Miguel. I’m the horse trainer and the trail guide.”
“Eden,” I tell him. I’m eyeing the paddock with some hesitation now because two of the horses have wandered in. They’re calm and slow-moving, both a very rich sort of brown with long black manes. Theyaregorgeous; they’re just also more terrifying up close. “I’ve never, uh… actually ridden on a horse before. Is that even safe? For me to go on this trail ride without having any experience?”
His mouth holds a soft smile, and he tips his hat. “Promise I won’t let anything happen to you, chiquita. We’ve got two of the most docile mares in the entire region.”
I bite my lip and fight back the urge to challenge him on that. I mean, it’s not like I don’t believe him, but he’s also a total stranger. “Has anyone ever died on your trails?”
He bursts into laughter, then shakes his head when I flush. “Sorry. I promise I’m not laughing at you. You just sound a lot like my husband.”
“Yeah? Is he also a high-strung control freak with the inability to try new things or relax?”
His gaze goes entirely soft, and he shakes his head. “He was. He’s the head chef here, and he didn’t know the meaning of rest before we met.”
It would be nice to meet a guy who took me out of my head like that. I want to tell Miguel and his husband both how lucky they are, but that seems rude. Instead, I lean my arms on the fence and watch the horses a bit longer. They’re just kind of wandering, occasionally bumping into each other, but the longer I stand there, the less they seem like giant death machines.
“What are their names?”
Miguel puffs up with pride like they’re his actual children. “That taller one there? That’s Sandy Shores. We just call her Sandy for short. The other one’s Clover.”
I don’t know a lot about horses, but one year my mom got really into the derby, and I remember thinking how ridiculous horse names were. Clover’s sweet though. “Can I ride that one?” I ask, pointing to the shorter one.
Miguel grins and nods, tipping his hat again. “You bet. I’ll get her brushed and saddled for you right before we go. You wanna feed her a couple carrots right now?”
I really,reallydon’t want to get my fingers chomped off—I kind of need them for work—but the hope in Miguel’s eyes has me cracking. Fuck, I hope my people-pleasing tendencies don’t cause me to lose a limb.
When I nod, Miguel leads me around the paddock to a small bin, and he reaches inside. He pulls out some roughly chopped carrots that are still covered in a little dirt, but I figure the horses don’t mind that.
“Hold out your hand,” he instructs.
I do, and he grabs my wrist and flattens my palm before laying the carrots on there. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, and then Clover trots our way and comes to a stop. She nudges him with her nose, and he nuzzles her right back.
It’s honestly so cute it’s gross.
