Just… present. In case there’s a problem with one of my horses.
That’s what I tell myself.
What actually happens is this: I watch her work the way you watch a fire—unable to look away, pulled in by something primal and physical that bypasses every logical system I’ve built.
The way she bends under a horse.
The way sweat darkens the hair at her temples. The way her forearms flex when she works the rasp—the specific, defined musculature of a woman who has earned every bit of her strength the hard way.
The way she talks to the animals—low, steady, a running conversation that’s half instruction and half reassurance, her voice pitched to the frequency that horses respond to.
Rose never sounded like that.
Rose’s voice was higher, lighter, like wind chimes on a porch.
Bex’s voice is deeper. Grittier.
Like gravel under tires. Like whiskey over ice. Like?—
I stop myself.
Physically turn away from whatever metaphor my brain is trying to construct and walk to the water trough and stick my hands in the cold water and hold them there until the shock resets something.
The ring glints under the surface. Distorted by the water. Still there.
Cold, professional truce.
That’s the arrangement.
She works the horses.
I manage the operation.
We occupy the same space without occupying each other’s lives.
Horses only. Nothing personal.
No conversations that aren’t about hoof angles and trimming schedules and treatment plans.
I can do that.
I’ve been doing hard things for five and a half years.
This is just one more.
Near the end of her session, I’m in the tack room organizing bridles—a task that absolutely needs doing and has nothing to do with the fact that the tack room shares a wall with the wash stall where Bex is cleaning up.
I can hear water running, can hear her talking to someone.
Grace.
I don’t mean to listen.
The walls are thin and the ranch is quiet in the midday heat, and their voices carry whether I want them to or not.
“—been back about three weeks,” Bex is saying. “Earl’s doing okay. Some days are better than others. The chemo wipes him out for about two days after each session, then he’s functional until the next one. He’s tough. Toughest person I’ve ever known.”
“How are you holding up?” Grace’s voice. Warm. The question asked with genuineness.
