“Want a sip?” she asks when we’re back in the truck. I set my black coffee in the cup holder and take a drink of hers.
My face contorts. “That tastes like ice cream.”
“And why does your face look like you swallowed hog manure?” She’s laughing.
“I wasn’t prepared. Give a man some warning when he’s about to drink straight evaporated milk and cinnamon.”
She’s still laughing. Then she takes a sip and says, “Mmm. This is heaven.”
We drive out of Franklin, agreeing we’ll come back another day just to linger in shops, catch a small local band playing at a venue, and browse the bookshops.
The drive to Leipers Fork takes us down a quiet, two-lane country highway stretching gently forward through openfarmland. Wooden plank fencing lines the road, broken occasionally by stone gateposts marking the entrance to another property. Open fields roll out on both sides, pale early spring green grass spreading toward the distant tree lines. We’ve barely finished our coffees by the time I pull up to the ranch address Dad gave me.
I pull onto the asphalt driveway. Rolling acreage spreads gently beyond us as far as the eye can see. The land has a natural rise and fall of well-maintained pastures, giving the property depth and a sense of privacy without feeling isolated.
A large red barn anchors the landscape, with a pale metal roof that catches the sun. Additional outbuildings and a farmhouse sit farther back, partially screened by trees. An older man, probably around Dad’s age, steps onto the porch and waves. He walks over to greet us.
“Cody?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “And this is my friend, Carli. She’s keeping me company today.”
“Well, good to meet you both. I’m Ray. Ray Mercer. Come on back and I’ll introduce you to Storm.”
He extends his hand and we shake. Then he eyes Carli with a warm smile. I want to loop my arm around her shoulders, but you never know when this man could talk with Dad, so I keep a slight distance.
We follow Ray to the barn set back from the road. A riding ring flanks the back.
“This here’s Storm,” he says when we arrive at the stall.
He tugs the door open and the three of us step into Storm’s space.
Storm stands soft and tall, not backing down, but not aggressive. He regards me and then Carli. She holds back, obviously deferring to me. Storm lifts his head and takes a steady step in my direction. His eyes are steady, calm, tracking me.
I glance at Carli. We hold a wordless conversation. She’s tracking all the same details I am. I imagine us, picking our own horses, running a ranch together someday. The thought should shock me, but it’s too right to feel unsettling.
“Want to take him out?”
“Please,” I say. “Anything I should know?”
“Nah. He’s seven. Got his wild hairs out by now.” Ray steps over to the tack wall and grabs a blanket and saddle. “Go ahead and saddle him up.”
I do. Carli stands back, watching, but then she walks around to Storm’s front, as if she can’t help herself but engage with him.
“You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you?” she coos in a near whisper. Storm gently lifts his nose into her palm and she runs her hand down it. “Oh, yes you are. I bet you love a good ride.”
Ray smiles at me. He knows. Carli’s not here as my friend.
I lead Storm out of the barn and into the ring. Then I mount and ride him, testing transitions and how he responds to the reins.
“Go ahead, when you’re comfortable,” Ray says. “You can take him out on the property.”
I nod and Ray opens the pen door. Storm doesn’t startle or take off, but there’s an awareness and eagerness to move. Just right. I give a nudge and some slack and we move from a trot to a lope, then I ride back into the pastures and let him gallop. We go for a little way and then I turn back, an idea suddenly taking hold. When I approach the pen, Carli and Ray are chatting. He’s leaning on the metal railing and she’s standing with her hands in her pockets with a soft smile on her face.
I pull to a stop right next to them.
“Mind if Carli has a go?” I ask Ray.
“Me?” she asks at the same time as Ray says, “Not a problem.”
