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2
CARLY
One month later…
There’s something soothing about grooming a horse. Something almost zen.
My father taught me how to do it when I was six years old. He wouldn’t let me learn to ride until I could take care of the animal first. I hated him for it, of course. At that age, I didn’t want to be bothered with such a mundane task. I wanted to be on horseback, riding wild and free, not brushing a horse’s hair.
But that attitude didn’t last. Grooming became a ritual for me—time getting to know the animal, time reflecting on our journey together.
Time contemplating something larger than myself.
It was my escape, and it’s where I went in my head while I was held on the island.
My safe place.
“You’re a gorgeous girl,” I say to Ivory, a beautiful cremello quarter horse, as I grab the hoof pick. The tangy scents of the stable are familiar. Oddly comforting.
I’ve never seen a cremello before—not in real life, I mean. I saw all the colors in my equine textbook back in vet school. This mare has a creamy pale coat, pink skin, and blue eyes. Her mane and tale are a shade lighter than the rest of her. I run my hand down her flank, her hair soft and her body warm.
She’s a gentle soul. One of my professors at school said blue-eyed horses were long thought to be wilder than their brown-eyed counterparts. As I work on Ivory, I can’t help but wonder how that myth arose. Her temperament is more composed than any other horse I’ve known. I’m a stranger to her, yet she’s giving me no trouble at all as I run my hand down her left foreleg.
“Up,” I say softly.
Her ear twitches and she lifts her foot. Excellent. No rocks. A little dirt, which I brush away with the pick. Her hoof looks healthy. She’s been well cared for.
But of course she has. Her life is on the Bridger Ranch, where a veterinarian is on staff.
I’m merely an assistant. I didn’t get to finish my first year of vet school…but I can’t go there in my mind. Not on my first day at the ranch.
I have a job. A job working with animals I love. I smile to myself.
My first job since my return to Bayfield, Montana.
I gently place Ivory’s hoof back on the stable floor and move to the next one, reliving the conversation with my parents this morning.
“I got a job. I start today.”
My mother’s eyes go wide, and she continues pouring orange juice into my glass until—
“Mom, stop!”
She jerks the pitcher upright just before the glass overflows. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “A job?”
“Yeah. At Bridger Ranch working in the stables.”
“Bridger Ranch?” she repeats.
Dad’s head whips up from the paper. He narrows his eyes
“With their livestock?” Mom asks.
I nod, feeling nervous and excited. “I’ll help wherever they need me. Cattle, horses, dogs and cats. Chickens. I don’t know. It’s the first step to getting back to vet school.”
“Why the hell would you get a job there of all places?” Dad’s voice doesn’t have his usual warmth. In fact, the way a vein throbs in his temple, he looks downright pissed.
“Because they have animals.” The long list I just shared. Duh.
