Not all of that was my fault. But when I think of little Freya, on the porch in her dirty, too big clothes, I can’t let go of the guilt.
I head to the barn. Andy is a wiry, graying man who walks like he’s been astride horses all his life. He stands in the center of the barn, hands on his hips, talking to one of the ranch hands. I met him coming in yesterday. His name is Ed, he’s younger than me, and he’s worked on this ranch for the last ten years, which means Deacon Ryder has a lax view of child labor laws. He had to be at least thirteen when he started. They both glance up when I enter, and I feel like an alien visiting Earth for the first time. Stared at, out of place.
“You get breakfast?” Andy calls.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Didn’t see you at the mess hall?” He narrows his eyes. “What’d you eat? Cup of coffee?”
I wasn’t expecting him to read me so easily first thing in the morning. The look on my face must give me away, because he shakes his head and hands the clipboard under his arm off to Ed, who heads off without saying a word. If I recall, he’s kind of a silent type, which I don’t mind. I’ve spent most of my life being that type, and there’s nothing better than not having to speak.
“Come on, let’s find you a horse,” Andy says.
We start walking to the barn at the other end of employee housing, where most of the horses live. I work a little slower,which I hope doesn’t bother him. Everything feels like I’m just now waking up, and I don’t know why. They sent me in for physicals, testing, and I did so much damn therapy. According to the doctor who released me, I’m fine, but it still feels like I’m standing still and the world is moving fast around me. The final doctor I saw told me it wasn’t the drugs most likely, just years of neglect and trauma piled high.
It’s going to take time, he said.
“What are your plans now that you’re here to stay?” Andy asks.
I shrug, glad he’s not beating around the bush. “Get into the swing of things and work. It’s a good opportunity.”
“Better stay in line,” he says. “Deacon’s the no-bullshit kind.”
“I gathered that.”
We pause outside the barn, the big door rolled back. Inside sit rows and rows of horses in some of the nicest stalls I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of being back in Kentucky, seeing those multi-million dollar horse farms where everything is locked up behind black iron bars and electric gates. When we step inside, it smells how I always thought those fancy barns would, like fresh air coming from the industrial fans and sweet, clean hay.
“These up front are the pricey ones,” Andy says, clearing his throat. “Back there are the working boys and girls, the extra ones that don’t get taken out as much. You can pick whoever you want from any stall that doesn’t have a name tag on it.”
I’m not a wrangler or a cowboy, but I get the feeling there’s something sacred about picking out a horse, so I’m appropriately silent as I walk down the middle of the aisle. Andy watches me, leaning on the wall. All the horses are beautiful, made of fine stock, but it’s a palomino that catches my eye, in the far stall to the left. I draw closer, looking up at its arched neck and head hanging over the door. It’s bulkier and taller than the other horses but surprisingly graceful as it reaches out to nip at the hem of my shirt.
“You like her?” Andy calls, pushing off the wall and striding over.
I touch her nose, soft as velvet. “Yeah. Kind of feels like she’s picking me.”
“That’s Starling,” he says. “She was a pity buy Deacon saw at auction. She kept pulling on his jacket, and he couldn’t let her stay behind, but she’s not much use other than for riding. We don’t breed Halflingers out here.”
I run my hand down her neck. “I’ve never seen a Palomino up close.”
“She’s not one, just looks like it. Halflingers don’t have the gene to be a true Palomino. She’s just a real pale chestnut.”
“I guess I have a lot to learn.”
Andy unlocks the stall, taking the lead rope down to hook to Starling’s halter. “Go on, take her out to the pasture.”
Back home, we didn’t ride much. It’s kind of embarrassing, but Andy has to help me brush her down and saddle her up. I watch closely so I never have to ask for help again, the mount up in the barn. I follow Andy out to the pasture behind the barn, and he opens the gate so I can take her through.
Starling rides easy but not quick. At first, I think maybe I’m doing something wrong, but Andy tells me not to rush.
“She’s just that way,” he says. “Her gaits are gonna be slow compared to the other horses.”
That’s alright by me. You know what they say about slow and steady.
We don’t do a lot of work for the rest of the day. It’s mostly about getting acclimated. Andy saddles up his gelding, and we ride the fenceline. Ryder Ranch is an enormous, beautifully kept operation. The mountains encircle the northern, western, and southern sides. Between them rise a few ridges and rocky areas here and there, but for the most part, its fields are full of cattleand horses. Andy talks a lot, and I keep quiet, trying to soak in everything so I can learn quick.
By the time we close the barn for the night, my head is jam-packed.
At the house, I take my coffee out and sink down on the stoop. Up and down the row of employee housing, the other wranglers sit on their porches or mill around, talking. Some of them have families who live out here; some are as single as I am. It’s a nice place, a little community all on its own out here in the wild. Plus, the housing feels like home, real simple, with an open porch like the kind we had back in Kentucky.
