Dust dances up from the bronc's hooves and floats into the sunshine. "Hey, Dad."
He sniffs and props a foot on the bottom rung of the wooden fence. "What do you think of this one?" He pushes his chin to indicate the rearing and snorting horse.
I scratch at my chin. "I can't figure out why you bought it."
"Never mind that," he says roughly. "Do you think he's pliable?"
The horse bucks past us. "Do you think he looks like he wants to be trained?"
"Dammit, Wyatt. Answer the question."
The horse's solid muscles ripple in the bright midday sun. Something about all that indignation is… beautiful. Vital. Excess emotion means you're alive enough to feel something.
All horses are trainable. They just have to be broken first. And the ones that are as damn crazy as this one just need to find someone to respect. I pull my ball cap lower on my head and shift my weight to my other foot. "He's trainable. Let him wear himself out. Tired horses behave better."
My dad breathes a chuckle. "We used to run you boys around until you'd drop into bed. Same thing."
I want to smile, but I can't. It feels false, listening to him fondly share a memory of my childhood.
The horse wears himself out, slowing until finally he comes to a stop. I step into the arena. He scuffs at the ground and eyes me, watching me walk to him.
I don't know what it is about me that calms a horse. Considering how much turmoil churns through me on any given day, it doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense. I step up to him and look him in his large, dark eyes. I can feel what's inside of him, dormant now but on display just a few minutes ago. He's afraid, and he knows only to fight or run. This is when I tell him he need not fear me. Some cowboys use violence to break a horse, but the thought sickens me. Trust and respect, that's all a horse needs. And it starts with a staring contest.
Eventually, he dips his head low, breaking our eye contact. I turn around, heading for the gate. Behind me, I hear his clomping hooves.
I lead the horse to the stable, getting him set up in a stall. My dad's waiting for me outside.
"You name it?" he asks.
"You keeping it?" I counter. Oftentimes he sells the horses I tame.
"If you want it. You need a horse, don't you?"
I nod slowly. Unlike Wes and Warner, who hold tight to Ranger and Titan, I rotate horses. But this one feels special, so I say the first name that comes to my mind. “Amigo.”
“Amigo it is."
We head toward the homestead, and I veer off when we get closer. "I need to get going to Jo's. She needs my help." I was too bothered by my run-in with Mrs. Calhoun's grandsons and never got back there yesterday to work on the porch.
My dad hooks two thumbs into his belt loops. "She's been needing a lot of it these days."
I stare at him. "Do you expect me to believe the sheriff got the idea for me to do community service all on his own? I like the guy, but he's not that smart."
"I don't know what you're talking about," my dad answers, but the slightly upturned corner of his mouth says differently.
"The fuck you don't," I say under my breath. I turn toward my truck, but my dad's voice brings me back around.
"What the fuck do you have to be mad about, Wyatt? Hayden's work hard, and I expect the same of you. I've had about enough of you doing whatever the fuck it is you do. This ranch needs a second-in-command, and I'm ashamed you're not stepping up."
The muscles in my upper back coil. "Did you say the same to Warner?"
"He put in his time. He sacrificed, he kept up the Hayden name while Wes was gone. You got the Hayden name by birth, but you damn sure aren't earning it."
I force my lower lip to stop quivering. "I know you're real disappointed my last name is Hayden. You've been disappointed since the day I was born."
"What did you just say?" It's my mother speaking now, standing on the front porch of the homestead, her arms crossed.
"Ask him." I point a stiff finger at my dad. I pass her on my way into the house. "Ask him why he's hated me since the day he laid eyes on me."
