Me:(sends a photo: mud-spattered boots next to a bucket of tools, captioned “#ruralchic”)
Nate:Gonna need a full outfit pic for… research.
Me:I bet.????
Tuesday starts early, I’m out before sunrise, checking on a mare about to foal.The world is quiet at that hour, that kind of sacred quiet where you can hear the horses breathing and the first sparrows testing their voices.
When the foal finally comes, it’s messy and beautiful.She unfolds into the world like she’s been here before, legs too long, eyes bright.The farmer’s teenage daughter cries when she takes her first shaky steps, and I pretend not to wipe at my eyes, too.
Afterward, I sit in the truck for a minute before heading to the next call.My shoulder throbs, and my ribs ache in the same dull rhythm as my heart.
I check on Rex when the coast is clear.Not because I am avoiding seeing a certain Hockey Captain who has been starring in my nightmares turned X-rated dreams...because I have a tight schedule and can't be held up.
But because I love to mess with him when I am safely at my next stop for the day, I send him a picture of Rex glaring at the camera with the caption“Me watching you make bad life choices.”
Nate:Where are you?
Me:Working
Nate:Are you fucking with me, Red?
Me:You said it, not me.
Nate:Such a tease.And by the way, I makegreatlife choices.Exhibit A: texting you.
Me:You’re skating dangerously close to charming, Captain.
Nate:A girl who works in horse shit all day and can throw around a good hockey play.I scored.??
I leave him on “read” for that, and he sends me a picture of McKenna and a player I haven't met yet with thumbs up, with the caption “even they think that was good.”
By Wednesday, we’ve added a few equine clients, a trail-riding camp on the outskirts of town, a horse rescue that’s forever underfunded but overflowing with heart.I help wrap a gelding’s leg and end up staying late to clean stalls because the owners short-handed.My ribs protest every shovel, but the smell of hay and leather is oddly soothing.
Nights are harder.My body’s tired, but my mind doesn’t shut off.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that moment in the paddock, the gate, the dust, the sound of my name breaking out of Nate’s throat.It mixes with the steamy dream version of him, the one who’s all warmth and command and quiet, careful hands.I tell myself it’s just adrenaline and proximity, that it doesn’t mean anything.But the lie tastes stale.
I toss and turn until my phone lights up, and so does my smile
Nate:You still awake?
Me:Define awake.
Nate:Texting me.Fantasizing about me.Thinking about me.
Me:Two out of three.
Nate:Which one’s missing?
Me:The second.Don’t let it go to your head.
Nate:Too late.
He sends a photo: feet propped on his deck railing, the moon making the lake look like silver ice, captioned “wish you were here to tell me it’s bedtime.”
Me:You wouldn’t sleep.You’d talk my ear off.
Nate:That wouldn't be the reason that we wouldn't sleep.
