All the ex-cons, everybody except Blaze, who didn’t need lessons, and Wayne, who was allergic, came for riding lessons each afternoon. Trying to keep them under control in the wooden paddock while they whooped and hollered their way through horseback riding lessons while pretending to be cowboys was its own struggle, but trying not to laugh because it would only encourage them was another level of difficulty altogether.
“Jonah, no, don’t stand up in the saddle like that, you’ll fall off and crack your—” Marston snapped his mouth shut as Jonah tumbled to the ground, laughing as the sensible horse carefully stepped around him, rather than crushing his skull with a misplaced hoof. “Will you learn now, d’you think?” he asked Jonah point blank.
“Nah,” said Jonah, a cut on his cheek bleeding as, smiling, he mounted his horse once more.
“For the horses’ sake,” said Marston firmly. “None of that. If you want to be a trick rider, you need to learn the basics first.”
The basics in those first lessons in the afternoons were how to saddle and unsaddle, how to groom, what to call the parts of a horse, and so on. It was finally on Wednesday afternoon that they collected in the paddock and he showed them how to mount up. How to make the horse go and stop. How to sit in the saddle.
Beneath the snickering and egging each other on, Marston had the sense that the parolees did want to learn what he was trying to teach them. It was just years of bad manners and pretending not to give a fuck that was making them act up so, with more good-natured patience than he’d ever thought he’d be able to muster, he remained calm and quiet, giving instruction and correction in an even-tempered voice.
And if he thought that Kell was the most advanced student, the best behaved, the most attentive, that wasn’t his own preferences talking, was it? Plus, Kell was a natural with horses, just about fearless, walking into the herd to put a halter on five likely mounts for the parolees to learn on.
He didn’t know everything about horses, but he knew enough to jump to the head of the class. Plus, he listened, hanging on every word that Marston had to say.
“Knock it off,” he heard Kell say as Duane and Tyson continued to try to push each other out of the saddle.
“Hey, guys,” said Jonah, his tone serious and low, as if he too had decided that enough was enough. A second later, he was grabbing the bridle of the horse that Blaze was riding, and threatening to pull it off, laughing the whole time.
“We’ll finish up with a smooth walk around the paddock,” said Marston. “Just try and focus on the horse’s rhythm, the motion of the horse’s body, and match your own to it.”
By the time the lesson was over, Marston was regretting his agreement to the whole project. It was all he could do not to start swearing because it might upset the horses and it would surely let the parolees know they’d gotten to him. But, while they unsaddled and groomed, the parolees had decided to settle down, which maybe was due to the fact that their feet were on the ground, or that their legs were wobbly from the ride.
“It’ll wear off,” Marston told them as he walked among them, checking each horse, guiding a hand that held a brush, or handing out horse cookies for the parolees to feed to their mounts. “You’ll get better at it with each ride, I promise you.”
The better part of his days were the mornings, which Marston spent alone with Kell in the white canvas pavilion in the woods. Not only was the setting like a fairy tale come to life, the weather kept to a daily summer schedule of mornings full of sunshine and fleecy white clouds bouncing across the treetops.
A faint breeze kept the tent from being hot. Every day, one of the cooks would bring out a Coleman thermos full of freshly made iced tea and apples and cheese and crackers for no reason, making each and every morning, frankly, magical.
“Always wear eye protection,” he told Kell as he demonstrated his grip on the chisel and hammer. “Always cut away from your body. Common sense will keep you safe.”
They drank iced tea while discussing the purpose of the chisel, used to make cuts and gouges along the edges of signs.
“They’ll look weathered,” said Marston. “At least I think they will. We can test a few patterns and see what looks nice.”
They settled on a pattern that included long chisel marks and a few deep cuts, keeping the pattern simple so it would be easy to prep a number of signs before cutting the words into the wood.
“We’ll use a wood burner for the words, I think,” said Marston. “And line the letters with black paint flecked with gold, stain, and then coat with varnish.”
“Will that last?” asked Kell, turning a wooden sign over in his hands, the freshly chiseled edges smelling like sap.
“It’s not meant to last,” said Marston. “Not like a plastic or metal sign would. Rather, it’s meant to look like it’s already been around for a good long while. Like there’s a history behind it.”
“Seems like a lot of fucking work for a few signs,” said Kell as he tossed a blank sign onto the table, as if frustrated or maybe overwhelmed with the amount of work that needed to be done.
Taking a slow breath, Marston organized his thoughts in his mind, wanting to keep the energy for the project going without loading Kell down with a lot of unnecessary information.
“The way I see it,” he said, gently. “Leland Tate wants us to tell a story with these signs. They’ll set the tone that the valley is like it has been for over a century. People will come to escape their lives. The signs are a kind of window dressing to help them with that escape. See? Also—” He waited until Kell was looking right at him. “There’s no need to swear. I know it’s only you and me in this tent, but you’ll get further with fewer curse words.”
For a moment, he didn’t know if Kell was going to laugh in his face, but then, as Kell nodded, he knew he shouldn’t have doubted his first instincts. That Kell’s background had been a good one, and he wanted to make his way back to something like that again. Not that Marston had anything against a well-placed curse, but had always felt it should be saved for special occasions.
What a prude he was. Well, better that than letting his own emotions take him for a ride. Setting a path for Kell would help him keep on the straight and narrow himself. Guiding Kell would be like guiding himself, only—
Only watching Kell lick the corner of his lip as he placed a block of wood in the clamps, and picked up the chisel and hammer, ready to go to work—as if the position of his lip would help with the quality of the final results—froze Marston to the spot where he stood. Where there were no words or guidance, only the slow trickle of desire down his spine. A shiver of something else, like awareness. A wish that he wasn’t in the position he was. That everything didn’t hinge on him getting this exactly right.
“Here’s the template,” he said, handing the thin sheet of plastic so Kell could trace the letters in faint pencil before starting the first cut.
After a while, maybe they wouldn’t need the template, but they were just starting out, so it was better to be safe than sorry. He stood close as Kell traced, telling himself that he needed to stand close to make sure Kell followed all of the steps.
