Kinsley:What job?
I tighten the cinch, checking it twice out of habit. Ace turns his head to watch me, one dark eye curious but patient. He knows we're going somewhere.
Me:Riding over to talk to Hank about the Whitmore situation. Mom wants to know where he stands.
The response comes fast.Be careful.
Something warm settles in my chest at those two words. I hold the phone up, angle it so it catches me and Ace with the mountains in the background, and snap a picture. The lighting's decent, and Ace has his ears forward like he's posing. I look like my grandpa's version of a cowboy instead of a guy who spends most of his time getting thrown around by livestock.
Me:Want to come along? Could use the company.
The three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then appear again.
Kinsley:I have to work. Conference calls this morning.
Me:After that?
Kinsley:I'm training Rebel.
Me:That's not the same thing as a ride through the hills,I text back.
The response is a shrugging emoji. "Don’t you ever ride for the sake of riding?" I ask out loud, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
The sound of boots on concrete echoes through the barn, and I look up to see Kit coming in hot, anger riding her every step. Her jaw's set in that stubborn line that meanstrouble, and there's a fire in her eyes that reminds me uncomfortably of myself at that age.
"Where’re you headed?" she demands, crossing her arms.
"Hank's place." I slide the phone back into my pocket.
"Why?"
"Ranch business."
Kit deflates.
"It's just a conversation, Kit."
"I'm old enough to know what's going on around here, and I can help," she snaps.
I study my sister's face, seeing the frustration there that runs deeper than just being left out of one meeting. But she's also sixteen and thinks she's bulletproof.
"You are helping," I say. "Someone's got to keep an eye on things here."
"That's babysitting." She pins me with a look. "I have a right to know what’s going on around here too."
Leaving her behind is not worth the fight. "Fine. Saddle up."
Kit's mouth gapes open. "Really?"
I adjust Ace's bridle, not meeting her eyes. "You follow my lead, understand? This isn't a social call."
She's moving toward the tack room before I finish talking. "I'll get Bandit ready."
I'm not sure she heard my warning.
Five minutes later, we're riding east across open rangeland. There’s no trail between our place and Cornerstone Ranch. The first stretch runs flat, across hay fields gone rough at the edges, where waist-high grass bends in the wind and the soil still remembers the plow.
Kit rides beside me on Bandit, her gelding's ears prickedforward as he picks his way through the scattered brush and grass. The anger that fueled her back in the barn has gentled into something calmer. Horse therapy, Mom calls it. Some people need twenty hours a week minimum, and Kit's definitely one of them.
