“I know you’re not happy about this,” Grace murmurs to Waylon. She’s inching around his body at a painfully slow pace, gently dragging the saddle across his hair. “And believe me, I’m not, either. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “But I need your help. I need you to do this for me.”Or I won’t get to stayis the frightful thought that follows her plea. Then, she swears Waylon actuallysighsat her words—whether in annoyance or acceptance, only time will tell. “Thank you,” she says as she approaches his other side, the place from which she’ll hoist the saddle onto his back. If he cooperates, it will be a fluid movement, less than thirty seconds. If he doesn’t and decides he’d prefer to bolt off in the opposite direction, she’ll probably tumble to the ground and earn herself a face full of dirt, maybe a broken arm. “Let’s see it, Waylon.”
She tries not to hold her breath. She really does. Horses pick up on things like that. They echo it. But it’s something she does without even thinking, sucking in a long breath through her nostrils and then clamping down her mouth as she lifts the saddle into the air and prays to God he stays still.
By some miracle, he does. For the entire fifteen seconds it takes to lift the saddle and let it slide onto his back, Waylon is a statue of calm. Grace’s eyes widen as this unfolds, as the saddle settles and the horse remains still. Her heart, pounding but slightly softer now, squeezes. In this moment, with all of hissteadiness, all of his quiet resolve, he reminds her of Vesta. Grace exhales sharply, all the breath shuddering out of her lungs in a gust of profound relief. She smiles, reaches out, and runs a hand over Waylon’s shoulder.
“Excellent,” she tells him. Admiring the way he looks so experienced and professional with the saddle now sitting comfortably on his back, she adds, “It looks good on you.”
They walk around the enclosure for a few laps, Waylon steady at her side. The sun beats down on them both, not even a streak of cloud in the sky for respite. Sweat drips down Grace’s back, plastering her white tank top to her skin. Little curls have begun to sprout near her forehead, her ears, and the nape of her neck. This kind of heat—it’s the kind that can convince someone they’ve never felt a cool breeze in their life. The kind that penetrates every molecule and worms its way into the brain. The kind that makes people go nuts.
“All right, now this part I know you’re not gonna love. But you’re gonna have to trust me,” Grace says, forcing her voice to be low and soft. Without giving herself enough time to hesitate nor giving Waylon enough time to second-guess her, she slips her boot into the stirrup and pushes down, then immediately releases her hold. Waylon gives way, leaning over with Grace’s weight, and though he looks slightly perturbed by the movement, he doesn’t seem angry. She repeats the motion, even leaving her boot in the stirrup and sort of bouncing herself on it to try to get him used to the movement, the feel of having to bear someone else’s weight. He is surprisingly compliant, and Grace decides to give it a go, hoping against hope that if he does buck her off, she’ll land on the shoulder that isn’t freshly healed from a dislocation.
When she fully mounts Waylon for the first time and he doesnothing but accept it—albeit with a little impatient-sounding grunt once she’s settled—no one is around to see it except for Duke. The older horse watches them carefully, and Grace swears she sees something like pride flash in his expressive eyes. Grace pets Waylon’s neck, giving him a few encouraging scratches, telling him in her softest voice that he’s good, he’s smart, he’s such a quick learner. This seems to work on Waylon; buttered up and amenable, he even takes a few cautious steps with her on his back, and he remains remarkably steady. When Grace dismounts ten minutes later, the grin on her face is wide and wild.
Excitement and pride course through Grace’s veins as she washes her hands and splashes water on her face in the barn sink. Since the night before, she’d been dreading the worst-case scenario happening: She wouldn’t be able to get Waylon to allow the saddle or allow himself to be mounted; she’d have to tell Renata she isn’t nearly as far along as she’d claimed. She’d fail her trial run at Halcyon and be back in that dingy one-stoplight town by sunset. Now, there’s a tentative relief that has her quickly drying her hands and checking her clothes for any excess grime. Relief, and a glimmer of hope that getting him saddled today will mean she’s secured her place here.
On the walk toward the main house, Grace admires the wildflowers surrounded by a sea of neatly mowed grass. They stand out, vibrant and wild—colorful rebels refusing to conform to the rigidity of the pin-straight blades. She counts the spiderwort sticking upward through patches of better-known blooms, like the runt of the litter trying to get its own slice of affection. But the primroses are her favorite. They’re a perfect blend of pink and purple, lush and elegant, never demanding attention but attracting it all the same.
All thoughts of flowers and whimsy dissipate like mist on the wind when the main house comes into view, because sitting in the driveway behind four Halcyon trucks is a government-issued vehicle. The Texas Department of Agriculture, by the looks of it. A flare of unease threads through Grace’s ribs at the sight of the logo on the side of the white truck, and, on instinct, her feet stop in their tracks.
Some part of her figured this might happen—if Bellamy was going to go down, he was going to take everyone with him. But she didn’t think it would be now. It’s too soon. It feels like she just got to Halcyon, and now he’s going to take it away from her, the same way he’s taken everything else.
Grace gulps down a dry, scraping swallow, the heat suddenly stealing all the moisture out of her body. Her heart races as she clocks the front door swinging open and two men walking out onto the wraparound porch, Renata following close behind them. The three of them stand together for a minute or so, chatting amiably, and then, like something out of a nightmare, Renata’s head swivels in Grace’s direction. She spots her immediately, and the men follow her gaze. Renata waves at her—they don’t.
Grace doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen next. Does not turning her uncle in for his crimes count as abetting? Can the TDA even arrest people? But then Renata’s wave turns beckoning. Insistent. Much to Grace’s confusion, she notices after a couple of steps forward that Renata is smiling.
Renata leans onto the porch railing with her forearms as Grace approaches. “How are you, darlin’?”
Grace manages a smile, halfhearted and slightly trembling. “I’m just fine, thanks,” she replies. “How are you?”
“Oh, happy as a pig in mud.” She nods in the direction of the troopers, and Grace turns to find them both looking at her. “Grady, Tripp, this is Grace,” Renata says. “She’s workin’ on Tasha’s stud for us. Grace, Grady and Tripp.” She waves a hand between Grace and the two men. “Two of the TDA’s finest outreach specialists, who tried andfailedto ruin my good mood just now. All they ever do is deliver me bad news.”
Grace’s throat tightens. Here it comes. Her breathing starts to quicken, growing more erratic with every passing second. They start to walk toward her, slowly, deliberately, and it takes every ounce of willpower Grace has not to bolt. To turn tail and run as fast as her legs will take her. They’re closing in, now less than an arm’s length away, and she considers turning around and putting her hands behind her back. Maybe if she does it without them having to ask, they won’t hurt her.
Then something strange happens. Almost in perfect unison, they come to a stop, and then both men tip their hats toward Grace. “Nice to meet you, Grace,” Grady says.
It’s a miracle Grace can form a coherent sentence, a feat she doesn’t even realize she’s capable of until “Nice to meet you, too,” comes tumbling out of her mouth.
“They were just leavin’,” Renata chimes in. She’s turned around now and leaning onto the rail with her elbows. “Weren’t you, gentlemen?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tripp says, his voice several pitches lower than Grady’s. They start to walk toward the cruiser, but as they go, Tripp turns around and says, “Please keep in mind what we discussed, Mrs. Caldwell. Highest temps on the record. Gonna be a mean August.”
“Tripp McCade,” Renata calls out, standing to her full height and pointing at him with a firm index finger. “If you call me Mrs. Caldwell one more time, after I have politely and consistently asked you to call me Renata, I’ll show youmean.”
Grace hears them chuckle, the footsteps descending the stairs, and the truck doors open and shut. As the engine hums to life, Renata peeks over the railing and sees Grace holding on to the wood of the porch. A strange thrumming in her ears is overtaking all other sound. Her knees suddenly start to buckle, and she’s sinking to the ground, landing atop a soft thatch of grass.
“Grace—” Renata is off, rushing down the steps and toward Grace’s side. Once within reach, she steadies Grace, helping her stand with two hands on her arms. It sounds like she’s speaking from underwater as she pleads, “Grace, look at me.”
Grace tries. She really does. But everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Except her heart—that feels like it’s about to burst in her chest, like a balloon floating toward a wall of needles.
Renata’s voice is even, soft but imploring. “Honey, I don’t know what’s happening—you gotta talk to me. Is it those men? They’re harmless—they just came by to tell me to move the herd out to the summer pasture sooner than we did last year.”
Grace barely hears the explanation. Her vision continues to swim until she almost teeters over again. Renata’s grip tightens on her biceps, straightening her back up, and then her hand is suddenly cupping Grace’s cheek, cool to the touch.
“Grace, listen to my voice. Listen.” The last word is sharper than the rest, like it finally broke through the surface of the water.
Grace nods. A slow, syrupy movement. It’s the best she can do.
“Good. Now, I want you to do something for me,” she urges.“I want you to think about your boots. Think about the grass beneath them. Think about digging your heels in. Think about the texture of the dirt against the soles.”
