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Without looking up, Charlie hefts a bale of hay up into the loft and says, “Since I know you’ll ask: Black one is Ghost. The chestnut is Big Red. Paint is Wesson. We got fifteen riding horses total. Colton has the rest out on a ride.”
“Can I pet one?”
He straightens and shrugs those broad shoulders. “They’re all kittens. Take your pick.”
“I’ve never been on a horse,” I say, walking closer to them. My to-do checklist rearranges. I mentally addRide a horse. Ride it into the sunset, and pretend I’m a cowgirl, wild and free.
This time, Charlie looks interested. “Really?”
“Nope.” I move around the stalls, scoping out Wesson. The pony’s brown tail flicks away flies. “Never been on a motorcycle, surfed a wave, danced in a bar, or done drugs. Boring, I know.”
Charlie grunts, tackling a second bale of hay.
I doubt he even heard me.
A rush of sadness, followed by a sensation of regret, burrows down deep in my belly. It stays there, the memory latching on like a leech.
The closest I’ve ever had to some excitement in my life was when I took ballet. When I was seven, barre and plié were my life. I’d practice for hours. I had a teacher I loved, who screamedvoilaevery time I managed to pirouette. When I lifted myself on tiptoes, I felt like I could reach anything. It was the happiest I had ever been. Two months later, I was in the hospital, diagnosed with SVT. Despite the doctors’ assurance that I’d be fine as long as I took breaks, my dad never let me go back.
I felt like I had lost my entire life that day, even though I was still alive.
My hand palms Wesson’s cheek. Smiling, I relish the feel of her velvet fur on my skin. The soft puff of air from her nostrils. She’s the best balm for making me focus on what’s in front of me—my life.
Heavy steps sound across the floor, and I glance over my shoulder. Charlie’s lugging a large bag of feed like it’s a pillow. I watch his massive forearms flex as he heaves it into a small room.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
“Tack room,” he says. “We keep everything to outfit a horse. Saddles. Blankets. Medicine.”
I give Wesson a last look and go to Charlie. “I can help.”
He lifts the brim of his dusty Stetson hat. “You?”
A lip curl of distaste or consideration I can’t tell.
I prop my hands on my hips, daring him to argue with me. “Yes, me.”
For a long moment, he stares hard. Then he jerks his bearded chin. “Okay. Get the hose and fill up each of the water troughs.”
For an hour, we work together in silence. While Charlie opens a grooming kit and gives each horse a good brushing, I spread new bedding down and refill water. It’s gratifying work. Work my brother and my father would never in a million years let me do.
Even though I’m not asking questions, I’m learning. Charlie takes pride in his ranch. He does the work himself. He’s respected. He’s kind to the animals.
It very much makes me want to save it.
I’m wiping my sweaty brow when a flicker of motion catches my eye. Curious, I drift to the open Dutch doors and step outside. Across from the barn is a large, fenced pasture where two horses are locked in a kind of dance. The riders look like tornados, dust and dirt kicked up behind them.
Charlie’s deep voice rumbles behind me. “C’mon,” he says, handing me a bottle of water and motioning me forward.
I smile. It seems my silence has been rewarded.
We step into the sunshine and head to the pasture. The sound of hooves thunder across the grass, the vibrations making their way into my core. As we get closer, I note it’s Wyatt and Fallon.
This time, I chance a question. “What’re they doing?”
“Training.” A half-grin cracks Charlie’s rugged face. “Fallon’s the reining barrel racing champ. She takes lessons from Wyatt when she doesn’t want to kill him.” He points. “See? She’s supposed to be listening to him, but she’s cutting him off.”
Happy whinnies come from the horses. I stare at their massive muscles rippling in the bright summer sun. Flashes of rust and chestnut swirl through the churning dust.
