I wouldn’t blame her if she walked when the six weeks are up. Why would she stay when I’m the one wasting time, ignoring my problems, not making the decision I need to make? And seeing it through the eyes of an eight-year-old who just wants to keep doing what she loves makes me want to do better. Whatever that means.
“Do you miss playing football?” Mad asks.
“Yeah,” I say, surprised how even that admission causes emotion to lodge in my throat. “For a long time, football was all I wanted. Playing for the Stormhawks was my dream. Being told I couldn’t do that anymore broke something inside me.” It’s the closest I’ve come to admitting how I feel to anyone. Somehow, it’s easier with Mad than with Mama or my brothers.
“Which is why you bought the horses,” Madison says. “For a new dream.”
“Maybe.” That and a lot of bourbon, but I can’t tell Mad that. “Right, we need to work on your throw some more if you’re going to be a star quarterback like Chase.”
Madison beams and we get back to the drills. It’s easy, it’s fun, and the more we play, the more something eases in me. Madison’s laughter ringing out every time she fumbles and her whoops of joy when the throw is good.
When my hands next wrap around the football, it doesn’t feel like a reminder of what I lost. It just feels fun.
And for a little while, I let myself believe it could be as simple as Mad has made it seem—a new dream taking shape. But thatmeans letting go of the old one, and I’m still gripping hold of that with both hands.
THIRTEEN
IZZY
FLIC:Dylan made an appearance yet or is he still hiding behind a hay bale somewhere?
IZZY:Reluctantly, but yes.
FLIC:He’s going through a tough time, but I knew he’d get his head out of his ass eventually.
IZZY:His head is still firmly up his ass! And he’s still a jerk!
FLIC:Didn’t stop you from kissing him in the back of my bar!
IZZY:Really wish I hadn’t told you that. And he kissed me.
FLIC:Seriously though, you OK?
IZZY:Aside from the fact I can’t find any ranch work anywhere and only have four weeks left in this job, I’m great. Mad loves it here.
FLIC:All I can offer is bar work, but it’s yours anytime you want it. Come see me soon!
I take the path that snakes away from the back paddock, following the sound of excited yells that can only be Mad. I knew she’d spotted Dylan heading out beyond the paddocks earlier and was eager to explore what was up there after we’d finished the grooming. I remember that feeling of wanting to explore and escape, and Mad knows to be sensible, so I didn’t stop her. I turn the corner, expecting to find a stretch of open pasture or dry scrubland. But instead, I come face to face with a huge football field with goal posts and faded white lines.
Of course Dylan has a football field on his ranch.
I shake my head as I spot Madison, standing in the middle of the field, legs apart, a ball in her hand. She swings her shoulder back then forward, putting her whole body into the movement as she releases the ball into the air. It wobbles a little but arcs close enough to Dylan for him to catch it. Mad whoops like it’s the winning touchdown and Dylan shouts some praise, his face lit up.
This isn’t the same man who’s been grumbling through every task I’ve thrown at him this week. Maybe I’m being unfair. Things have been different since the fall with the fence post. He hasn’t complained once when I’ve corrected his work. He’s up earlier too, stepping out the back door with two cups of coffee, passing me one with an exaggerated show and even cracking a smile when I give him my promised “thanks.”
He’s been avoiding the horses, though. I’m not sure why, but he always finds something else to do, somewhere else to be when the training starts or there’s grooming to do. I know he rode as a kid. You don’t grow up on a horse ranch without getting thrown in the saddle by the time you can walk. So it can’t be that he doesn’t know how to handle them.
With an idea in mind, I push off the fence and head toward the barn, boots hitting the dry earth. We’ve made progress this week. The last stall in the barn is finally cleared of boxes and clutter, swept clean and bedded down, ready for the horses. The tack room has fresh nails lining the wall where bridles and reins now hang in neat rows. The feed stores are full and it’s finally starting to feel like a real working ranch. Inside the barn, the air is thick with the scent of hay and oiled leather as I gather what I need before stepping back into the afternoon sun.It’s slipping toward the horizon, but the heat still clings to the day. By the time I’ve led the three horses to the fence line for saddling, my shirt is too hot on my back. I strip it off and finish tacking up in my tank top, the warm air brushing against my shoulders.
Ten minutes later, three horses are saddled and waiting for their riders. Rusty is the biggest. A tallbay gelding with a reddish coat the color of the foothills in summer, he’s Bill’s old ride. Steady and patient. I run a hand down his flank and he huffs, nudging me with his nose like he knows he’s being called up.
“You’re going to be on babysitting duty today, handsome,” I whisper as I tighten the girth. “For the record, I still think he’s a jerk, but we’ll give him a try, OK?”
Next is Rosie, the dapple-gray mare Madison loves to sneak treats to. I move around to each side, adjusting the stirrups. She’s one of the smallest mares and comes with a little sass, but she adores Mad, and I trust her.Last is Bramble, my favorite gelding to ride. Midnight-black and sturdy. A horse who’ll ride forever.
I hear them before I see them. The excited, babbling chatter of my daughter followed by the lower, shorter replies from Dylan. I turn in time to see Mad break into a run, a football still tucked under her arm. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is wild.
“Dylan’s been teaching me how to play football,” Mad says, a little breathless and a whole lot of happy. “I’m going to be a quarterback like Chase. Dylan said we can go with him and Mama to watch the Stormhawks play next weekend. Can we go, Mom? Please! We’re watching from the sky.”
