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ChapterTen
DASH
I didn’t needto answer her last question. How did that woman get me talking? I don’t owe anybody a piece of me, just like I try not to take more than my fill of anyone around me. But our twenty minutes in the kitchen might have been the closest I’ve felt to anyone outside my family and Mateo. Our time in the kitchen and me saying those two words, which might as well have been spilling my life story, has me aching for more of… whatever the hell it was Molly was offering.
Last night, I softened in her presence. Both physically and mentally, something about that woman came right through all those walls I’ve built. And she pushed through them effortlessly, like a ghost.
But as soon as I mentioned Mustang Valley, that hard, stiff feeling of being a walking, talking fortress overcame me, and by the time I found Jojo in the stable, I was back to my old self again. Or so I thought. Jolie and I kept each other up all night by shooting the shit about her nutty horse, Ted, the new farrier taking over from our old one, and about Christmas coming up and the presents we might get for Eve and our mom.
Back to normal.
Then, Molly emerges again in the morning, all smiles and wet brown hair like when I found her naked in the apartment. Her big brown eyes and the relief of her seeing Romeo okay warms me all over again. Seeing her smile melts me. I thought I was immune to this kind of emotion and now I’ve met my kryptonite.
She and Jojo seem to be great friends. Though Jolie takes to a lot of people, she’s no fool and doesn’t talk to just any old ranch hand. Jolie updates Molly to the status of Romeo’s health, then they start talking about the sleigh being delivered and some other plans I hardly listen to because it’s time for me to get out of here and make an attempt at reestablishing my schedule. My habits keep me sane. Occupied. And give me a sense of purpose outside myself that I need back right now. I need back in my routine. I need to go back to the predictable life I built, part useful, part busy, that stops me from thinking and wanting things I shouldn’t have.
But as I head past Molly out the stall door, she touches my arm. “Morning.” She says it like I’ve been ignoring her. Wobbling her head, she chucks me a silly smile.
This woman is some Marvel character, because her hand sends electricity up my spine. “Morning.”
I roll my lips into something like a firm smile, though I’m not sure they curve upward. I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her, quite the opposite; my mind is hellbent on keeping her front and center. Which is why I tip my hat wanting to leave, but she catches me again.
“Oh, just a minute… I need to tell you something. My sister is coming at the weekend. I wanted to let you know. We aren’t loud or anything so we won’t keep you up. But I just wanted to make sure you keep your shorts on.”
She lets out one of her little giggles, the ones I’ve only ever heard in the distance before, and it feels good swarming around me like bubbles in a hot tub.
Her sister? Shit. I can hardly handle one Molly, I’d never deal with two. But just as quickly as that thought enters, another, more curious one does:There aren’t two Mollys. Because this woman is one of a kind.
Good Lord. One piece of peanut butter toast and she’s got me wrapped around her finger. It’s probably just all that pent-up sexual energy getting the best of me. Not a lot of men could live around a curvy, voluptuous girl next door who doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty and not have some kind of attraction.
But I’m not a lot of men. Some men can handle loving and losing and making up and breaking up. I don’t have a heart to give. I know better than to let us cross any lines.
* * *
I haven’t been to Mustang Valley in the daylight for a long, long time. I tell myself it’s because at night, when the wild horses are here, they’re snoozing. They spook less, and it makes my job of checking the water piped into a dried-up watering hole nearly twenty years ago easier. The real reason might be something else. Maybe I just appreciate how at night, I’m sure to be alone.
I tie on my Appaloosa, Amigo, at the very end of the line. I spin the crank and water hisses out of the mains and into the piping. Step by step, I trace the pipe and remember how when I first started doing this with my dad, the long rubber hose sat on top of the earth. Now, so much dirt covers the pipe that in places, it’s completely buried by moss.
But I don’t have to see it to know where it lies or how important it is. I came here almost every day with my father when I was younger, apart from Christmas, maybe birthdays and other special celebrations where he allowed a day of rest. But otherwise, rain or shine, storms or drought, we’d ride out to the top of the ridge and do the hike on foot to make sure it was all in working order.
It’s the place of all my biggest extremes. Awe, when Dad and I saw a mustang foal being born while hiding quietly, mouths hanging open behind some bushes. Anger, when we noticed one year there were less mustangs than usual after reading about a roundup in the paper. And of course, it was here I experienced the darkest agony I’ve ever known.Willever know.
But lately, I come here, and my feelings have slowly, over time, transformed into some sort of numb.
By the time I reach the edge of the ridge giving way to the valley, I remember my dad’s advice, in this very spot.“Life isn’t about being happy. It’s about being useful. But what you’ll find, son, is that when you’re useful, you’re happy.”
I hate thinking it. I hate thinking anything about my dad not being perfect because he was my hero. But that advice was his flaw. He was wrong. I make myself useful every day, but no spark of happiness ever flickered. I keep coming to this valley, day after day, serving the wild animals that live here, waiting for the happiness he said I’d find. I’ve been coming here every day for eighteen years and I can’t remember one goddamn day I felt something like happiness.
But I come for the memories that are the closest thing to it.
I need to hike down into the valley to the watering hole to see if it’s filling. Even though there’s a longer trail I could take down with Amigo, you can’t risk bringing a domesticated horse around here. Amigo, as his name suggests, might be my friend, we have a bond as close as any, but herd mentality in the equine world far exceeds human connection. So I amble down on foot, and it’s strange to now see the obstacles my feet have been programmed to avoid in the years of darkness. Sagebrush. Agave. Even a few lone tickseed sunflowers bloom yellow in spite of autumn, aside my path.
It’s a steep, nervy trail that winds down. It’s mostly safe, apart from a few places where I slip. But I know exactly what branch I can grab to steady myself. It isn’t a long scramble down, and I know it like the back of my hand.
It’s a cool day, but I can still smell the earthy, minty smell of the mountains when I hit the bottom of the valley. The mustangs are at the far end, a wide berth from the watering hole, so I can inspect the entire length of the pipe, check for any leaks. None.
A sole whinny releases into the valley, and its echo reaches all the way to me. I squint, trying to get a glimpse of the feral, natural scene. I’d love to stay here all day and clear my thoughts. But surprisingly, even a trip to my favorite place on earth, the one that usually cleanses me of any madness occupying my brain, doesn’t reset this time.
It’s futile. I think of Molly every step back up the hill. I think about the surprise in her eyes when I agreed to exchange questions in the kitchen. The delight made her gaze sparkle, and I never thought I could make someone so giddy just by talking to them. I think about how she felt pressed into my chest when I fell into her in the stable, how the small of her back was soft and womanly and I worried about her hitting her head against the wall. I think about her rubbing herself with minty-strawberry suds in the shower. And by the time I reach Amigo, I’m circling through how a woman who’s had to grow up so fast can still wear a playful smile every day.
