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I nudge her shoulder. “You know what I mean. Seems only fair.”
She nods. “It does.”
We turn back for her house, and I change the subject. “Don’t hit me, but you know therearelocal rodeos, right? Like, you have to start there, anyway, and create a name for yourself. Not that I don’t think you’ll fly through the rankings, but you have some time before you have to tour. Season doesn’t even kick off until early summer. We have months to whip you into shape and figure things out.”
Winnie sighs.
“Forward movement,” I remind her.
“I know,” she says. “I’ll consider it. That’s as much as I can promise. It depends on Camilla and your dad and whether or notJesse stays in school.” She flashes a smirk in my direction. “You realize you said ‘we’ right?”
“Yeah, well, I’m not out of it yet.”
“Will you come no matter what? To watch or whatever?” She blinks up at me, her dark lashes fluttering, and my heart stutters in my chest. I swallow hard and nod, definitely not pointing out she’s already asking me about coming to see her race when she just said she would only consider it.
Nope. Just gonna roll with this.
“You couldn’t stop me. That’s what friends do, right?”
“Right,” she agrees, turning to walk again. “Friends.”
Walker never wroteFall for your friendon his list, but maybe this is like the situation with the corn silo. Maybe it’s meant to be taken more in the spirit of things.
In which case, I have every intention of making Winnie Sutton my friend.
SeventeenWINNIE
May arrives on the heels of a thunderstorm. One of those expansive ones that spin down from Oklahoma and settle for a while. They’re rare enough we don’t bother fighting it too much. Just let it roll through and green things up a bit. Since our trail rides were canceled for the day, I texted Maria, and she drove out to join us under the guise of “practice.”
And byus, I mean me, Case, andPax. I thought there might be some issues because last I heard, Pax was still off and on with Madi Wallen, but clearly, I understand nothing.
Enter Maria Santos, and suddenly, everything is well and decidedlyofffor poor Madi.
It’s been an interesting few weeks around the ranch. Case has been making himself at home in the stables for months, but now it’s stables in the morning, training in the afternoon, and the occasional evening practice when Maria’s feeling pushy and Jesse’s able to stay home with Garrett.
I’ve gone from zero social life to nightly plans in the course of three weeks. I’m still mega hesitant about competing, andto his credit, Case has kept up his end of the bargain and isn’t forcing the issue, but Maria is another story. Give the girl an inch… I can’t find it in me to be annoyed. I sort of like the change. Jesse hasn’t missed a day of school in over a month, and I’ve been making more money than ever with the new horses Camilla has me working with: Risky Business and Pistol Annie. They’re two longtime boarders whose owners are friendly with Mr. Michaels. He and Camilla have been talking me up while also discussing the grand adventure (and solid investment) that isrodeoand have convinced the owners to let me train their horses to race. Maria is positive she can find us riders looking for fast, well-trained horseflesh, and Camilla has even invited me to come on a trip down to Fort Worth in two weeks to check out a couple of other potential candidates we can train up and sell.
“Or,” Camilla offered in a too-casual manner, playing with her leather work gloves, “you know, maybe even keep, in the event you decide to take Mr. Michaels up on his offer of sponsorship. You’ll need more than Mab.”
I didn’t respond.
Things are going unusually well, but it feels precarious. As if at any moment, all these plates I’ve got spinning are gonna wobble and shatter on the ground. It’s the way it’s always been, after all.
It’s like Mab. When we first got her from that horrific auction, she was skin and bones. Her ankles and fetters scarred, her coat dull and oily. She was skittish to the max. She still stutter-steps over new ground textures, but when she first came, it was as though she was deathly allergic to concrete and closed-in spaces. Her previous owners didn’t have stables or even a shed, and consequently never allowed her inside, even in extremeweather. They kept her tied up in their backyard. I don’t know if they ever struck her, but Iamacquainted with neglect, and there’s something fucked up that happens after being told no so many times. The hope dies. It hurts too much, and eventually, self-preservation kicks in. You stop trying to escape. You stop asking for more than what you have. You learn to be grateful, even, for the little you’re given.
Eventually, you become protective of that tiny, muddy, shit-filled backyard. Because it’syours, and because all you love in the whole world is in that space.
The less you have, the tighter you hold on.
It’s hard for someone like Case Michaels or Maria Santos, with their gobs of money and security, to comprehend that, but I’m pretty familiar with the concept. It’s not as though I don’twantthe sponsorship or I don’t think I could win. I do, and I would.
It’s that I don’t have any faith it will work out for me. Faith, hope, belief, whatever, it’s all the same hurtful bullshit wrapped up in pretty sentiments. I lost all of that somewhere around Garrett’s first birthday when neither my mom nor my dad made an appearance, and we kids ate a box cake made by a nine-year-old.
I can do anything except depend on someone else.
Mab’s the same. Fuck if she’s ever going to ask for permission again. She belongs to no one. I’m convinced she only works for me because like attracts like. Two neglected and tired souls, living for the moment.
And this moment is a good one, preceded by weeks of equally new and different, good moments. Four almost-adults sitting on a covered wraparound porch watching a rumbling storm roll in over the plains. I’ve never done anything like this before, and being casually a part of something so mundane makes me feel off-balance, but not in an unwelcome way. Here I am. Sittingwith other people who aren’t related to me, watching weather. “Shooting the shit,” as Pax likes to say.
