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I choose the good life.
I choosemylife.
All these little white pills in my purse, this tattered map, my twenty-dollar sundress, this beauty of a bucket list. They will all get me to some wild, wondrous adventure I cannot yet imagine.
The bottle stops.
It points north. The tip of it lands in a state that shakes me awake inside.
My heart shivers, a familiar sensation of hope taking root in my soul.
Montana. The mountains.
Cowboy Hat steps up, his eyes crinkling in a beguiling grin. He holds out his sunglasses. “You need these,senorita, to have a little fun.”
I meet the man’s smiling eyes and warm tears of gratitude fill my own. Cheap plastic gas station shades have never looked so beautiful. I clutch them to my heart. “Thank you.”
He nods.
I lower myself into the car and take a deep, slow breath. My mother once said, years before she died, years after everyone warned her not to have that last baby, “Honor your heart until you become it.”
Well, my heart is open wide.
And I intend to use it.
Flip-flops. They’re wearing goddamn flip-flops.
I stare at the tourists, bright-eyed blonde sisters, giggling in a corner of Runaway Ranch’s lodge as they select a walking stick from an iron umbrella stand. A local carpenter whittled the rods of smooth wood, fashioning the heads of each stick into a furry woodland creature.
The girls giggle some more.
Christ. Their tiny shorts and thin tank tops aren’t even appropriate hiking attire. I note the absence of water bottles or canteens and cringe. They’ll die out there on the trails.
This is a working ranch, not a goddamn glamping experience.
I almost erupt when they dig into the bucket of ice-cold PBRs we leave out for our guests. Great. They’re gonna get drunk and fall down the side of the fucking waterfall.
I close my eyes and breathe out through my nose.
What a fucking mess. It’s been a week since the ranch opened for the season and already we have guests going rogue.
I listen closely to their conversation, catchingCrybaby Creekandhot cowboys.
The girls choose a walking stick and head for the back door.
I reach for the two-way radio on my hip. “Colton.”
“What’s up, boss? How can I help?”
I massage my brow. Colton’s a new hire fresh out of high school who dropped into the ranch at the beginning of summer looking for work. We hired him on the spot. Young and eager to please, he has the energy and enthusiasm for odd jobs around the ranch that no one else wants to do.
“Don’t call me boss.” If anyone deserves the title, it’s Davis, my oldest, bossiest brother. “Listen, we got two newbs headed down to Crybaby Creek in flip-flops.”
Colton cackles. “I’ll keep a watch on ‘em.”
“Thanks.” After a beat I say, “And intercept the goddamn beers.”
“You got it, Charlie.”
