Denver:Loser gives a BJ
Blair:Sounds like a win for both of us either way
Shutting my laptop, I grab the light hoodie from the back of my chair and head out. It’s finally a slightly cooler day, but the sun’s shining. The perfect weather to clear my head somewhere on the back of a horse. Get a little taste of Blair Hart circa mid-2000s, before adult life stamped out my spirit. Now I’m back home, eager to pick up the fragments of my old self scattered around Wells Canyon like puzzle pieces. And I might finally be ready to let Denver help put me back together.
After a quick stop at home for a pair of jeans and my old boots, I’m flying up the mountain with the windows down and the playlist Denver made for me when we were kids blasting into the midsummer air.
—
“Buckskin in paddock six,” I mutter to myself, standing outside the barn and staring at pen after pen of horses. “Why do they need so many damn horses?”
I squint, counting away from the barn.Okay. No.There’s nothing but a sea of bay horses in the pen six away.Okay.Closest to the barn?
That really feels like the most ass-backward way they could possibly do it, but truthfully, I wouldn’t put it past them to number the paddocks in the dumbest way possible. I mean, clearly they didn’t do it the way any normal person would, or my first guess would’ve been correct.
Thereisa buckskin gelding in the pen closest to me, so I walk to the gate, halter swinging at my side. Given the way he saunters over immediately, this must be the horse Denver was talking about taking.
“Hey, bud,” I say softly, letting him greet me before opening the gate and walking in. “Wanna go for an adventure? It’s been a while, so go easy on me.”
I lead him over to the barn, get him ready, then take an embarrassing amount of time to find the right-sized saddle and get it on him. Thank God Denver isn’t here, because he’d never let me live this down. Odessa could probably beat me in a race.
“I forgot to ask Denver what your name is, but I can’t just call you ‘hey you’ all day…. I mean, I guess Icould,but that feels ridiculous. So I’ll call you Sandy for today, okay?” I settle into the saddle, getting acquainted with the feeling and making sure Sandy feels good about it.
I might’ve been a bit spoiled with Chief. I could do anything I wanted with that horse—there was mutual trust and love. And I was double-spoiled, because I had Lucy Wells to show me the ropesandhelp train my horse. But Sandy is one of many horses in the remuda, and he’s likely only used to Denver.
So we start slowly, walking across the ranch to a trail Iknow well. One that switchbacks up the mountainside, leading to the upper hayfields. From there, it branches to the lake, the upper part of Timothy River, unending pasture, and beyond for infinity. If you head in the right direction, you can ride for days into the middle of nowhere. No roads, no signs of civilization.
Sandy hikes the steep terrain in a series of grunts and huffs, shrinking the ranch buildings with every step closer to heaven. The scent of cattle slowly dissipates, replaced with cut hay and summer air. I’m breathing the deepest I have in ages by the time we reach the top, and I lean forward to give Sandy a loving stroke on the neck.
Shutting my eyes while we cross the open field, I let my mind think of absolutely nothing. Nothing but the way the sun feels on my face, and the summer breeze lifting up the ends of my hair, and the steady movement of the horse under me. Everything about this little slice of heaven is astonishingly poetic—something I forgot to miss while I was so busy missing everything else about this place. And I don’t bother stopping the tears or wiping them before they fall.
I also don’t check the time or touch my phone in my saddlebag. I simply ride and talk to Sandy, treating the saddle like a therapist’s couch. “The thing is, I don’t know what it’s like to rely on someone, because I don’t ask for it. My sister always needed help from my parents growing up, so I didn’t ask. I didn’t know how to ask for help, and when the time came when I desperately needed it, Denver didn’t know. Because how could he? And yet I blamed him….”
We stop at the river so Sandy and I can both have a drink in the shade. I need something to soothe my sore throat from talking so much. And I scoop glacier-fed water into my cupped hands to splash away the tear streaks down my cheeks before climbing back into the saddle. My legs ache from going so long without riding, but the warmth in my chest keeps me pushing on.
“I love my career choice, and I loved most of my life in Vancouver. It was just missing something. And I shrugged that off for years, going back to school for a master’s degree, dating people casually, signing up for team sports. Searching for something to make me feel like myself.”
We cross at a shallow section of the river and continue along a trail weaving among thick trees. The air has a sudden coolness to it that I assume is from being so deep in a thicket and close to the river. “All of the people and things and prescription medications couldn’t fill the depressing-as-fuck emptiness. Between you and I…getting dicked down in a small town hasn’t magically cured all my problems, but I feel more like the person I want to be than I have in a long time.”
We carry on past the spot where we spread Grandpa Wells’s ashes years ago—a cliffside overlooking the entire valley. On a clear day, you can see into town and well beyond, but dense, dark clouds seem to have settled in the valley during our ride. I smile at the indication of rain cloaking the mountain range beyond the ranch. Farmers pray for rain during a normal year, but a particularly dry summer like the one we’ve had elevates that to a new level. It’s not simply about losing crops or struggling to water your animals. It’s about losingeverythingwith a single spark turned deadly forest fire.
“Let’s get home, Sandy.” I nudge his sides and start back down the mountain.
Within minutes, thunder’s rolling down the valley, and Sandy’s ears perk at the crashing roar. I gnaw the inside of my cheek, trying to remember if there’s a faster route home rather than going back the way we came, which would mean two hours on the trail. Two hours and aguaranteewe’ll be riding through a thunderstorm.
We stop in the middle of an expansive field. Grass brushes across Sandy’s knees with a whistling, damp gust. His body tenses under my legs, ears pricking at the swirling sounds of wind and rain and thunder that seem to be all around us. Irun a palm over his neck, other hand anxiously rubbing the saddle horn until it creates hot friction against my skin.
I’ve been caught in storms before. I’ve driven cattle in intense rain and howling wind. But that was then—when I was young and reckless and trusted my horse with my life—now my head’s getting the better of me.
I was an idiot to think I could still do this after fourteen years.
A crash of thunder has Sandy sidestepping, and my blanched knuckles curl around the reins. With a series of desperate soothing sounds, I manage to steer him toward a thicket of poplars as the first few droplets of rain fall.
We both just need a minute to get our bearings, and we’ll continue on to the ranch.
It’s fine. I got this.
I can’t get out of the saddle fast enough by the time we reach the trees. The claps of thunder come from directly above, rattling my bones and sending shivers up my spine. Sandy throws his head back, backing up in a threat to run.
