“He could be too.”
“There’s no prize in life for collecting broken things.”
“If there was, I’d have already won it.”
There’s a pressure on my chest. Not inside, like I initially think. It’s from the curved fingernail digging into the space between the third and fourth buttons of my shirt. I fixate on the slender curve of her finger and the lack of ring on the one two over.
Tilly’s perfume fills my nose and poisons my brain. There’s something constricting around my throat, making it impossible to tell her to back off. Slowly, she takes that red-painted nail and tugs the third button open, her head tilting. Swirls of colour coil around the black designs on my skin, and she stares at them, as if trying to dissect each one.
I circle my fingers around her wrist, taking note of how they easily overlap. She releases a rough noise when I tug her hand away from me and then drop it.
“Stay away from the pen. If you need anything, figure it out yourself,” I grit out, backing away further.
Her hand falls to her hip as she lets me go. “I’m taking a truck with me to the trailer after since you warned away my driver.”
“I don’t care.”
The last thing I see before I turn around is her middle finger. She pushes it toward me and then storms away, disappearing into the stable. I almost laugh.
Almost.
15
TILLY
The sun’slowering by the time I finish with a mare named Biscuit and shut her stall door. The caramel-coloured horse with the shiny black mane that I considered braiding once or twice was my last “client” of the day, and I’m tempted to get one more in before calling it a night.
I didn’t get through even half the list today. Petty Tilly wants to blame Rowe for that. Having to trek up to the house and ask Faye for a list of horse names that was pinned on the grooming stall wall the entire time was a waste of time. It was a ridiculous goose chase, and I can only imagine how proud of himself he felt hearing about the argument I had with his mother about it. Thinking back on it now, I have no doubt she called her circle of ranch wives to talk smack about me and my attitude.
Ididhave an attitude. She wouldn’t exactly be lying.
Returning to my stall, I unhook the hose from the wall and start spraying down the floor. The drain is huge and covered in shed hair. I don’t know who the previous groomer was, but not to toot my own horn, she wasn’t as good as I am. While I didn’t find anything outwardly sloppy or concerning when tending thehorses I got to today, you can tell whoever they were liked to cut a few corners. They clearly never used hoof oil, and at least three of the brushes hadn’t looked like they’d been cleaned . . .ever. Some of the horses even acted as if they’d never seen a curry comb a day in their lives, and that isn’t exactly a green flag.
On a ranch with as many horses as Painted Sky, I can understand feeling like you need to move quickly. By the time you get through ten of them, there’s another fifteen waiting. The cycle is endlessly repeating, but I love this job. I chose it for a reason, and it wasn’t only because being stuck in a stable all day meant I could avoid conversing with humans.
The mats beneath my rubber boots are filthy too. The gelding from earlier made one hell of a mess for me, and despite using the pressure washer on the floor after, there’s still evidence. I’m going to be dreaming about tail gunk tonight. One minute you’re brushing out a few knots, the next you’re elbow-deep in what can only be described as fermented butt juice.
Eventually, I get the mats clean and the hair rinsed down the drain. The hose goes back on its hook, and I take the soaking brushes out of the filthy water. Any soap I squirted into the buckets is long gone now. I lay them out on the counter to dry overnight and then bang a few dry ones out against the wall. The water in the buckets looks like oversteeped tea when I dump it down the drain and turn them upside down to try.
For the first time today, the stable is quiet. I change out of my rubber boots and stretch my arms above me while passing the silent stalls. The kid who’s always ankle-deep in shit—Brock, I think his name is—has already fed the horses and left. A couple of them are still out, but when I pass Diesel’s stall, I find him inside.
Chomping on his supper, he hardly pays me any attention as I grab the metal bars of his door and lean against it, watching. I had forgotten how big he is during my time away. His kindnessnever faded from my memory, but his face did. I’ve felt guilty about that often. It used to bother me at night when I was lying in bed next to my ex-husband, staring at the ceiling.
I should have remembered every face I left behind, but over time, it got easier to forget them. It was easier when I couldn’t see them every time I closed my eyes. Pain was the last thing I wanted to feel when I restarted my life, so I did everything I could to prevent it.
I think how hard I fought to forget only made things worse once I was forced to remember.
Blowing out a breath, I press my forehead to the bars. Diesel’s ears twitch when he picks up on the noise and finally abandons his hay. A few pieces drop from his mouth, as if he forgot to keep chewing. I keep my laugh trapped in my throat.
His heavy hooves whisper across the stall floor as he ambles toward me, not rushing; never rushing. Then, he’s right there, so close I can feel the wetness from his nose against my cheek. He presses his face to the other side of the bars. A gust of air hits my cheek.
The door wobbles on its hinges when he butts his head against the bars with more force, demanding a proper greeting like the stubborn thing he’s always been. I can’t hide my laugh any longer. It comes out softly, and he does it again.
“I missed you too, Diesel. God, you’re needy,” I tell him, curling my fingers under his jaw through the bars.
He leans some weight onto my hand, encouraging me to keep it there.
“You need to give Rowe a kick in the ass because I would have groomed you first today. Before anyone else.”
