Something akin to panic starts to bubble up in Grace’s stomach. Heat blooms on her cheeks under the woman’s attention. For a moment, she’s sure she misheard her. Swallowing a lump in her throat, Grace asks, “Beg your pardon?”
“I have an old friend. We used to be very close—attached at the hip, really—but we don’t get to see each other much anymore. Anyway, I talked to her recently, and she told me all about this real talented horse trainer who was scraping by working at a general store in Minetta. Said she was only working there because she’d walked away from Braxton Ranch and couldn’t land another ranching job.”
“Your—yourfriend,” Grace stammers, knuckles going white as she grips the counter.
The woman nods. “Dear friend. Maryann Hartford.”
Grace blinks, not fully processing the information. “Maryann?”
Another quick nod. The woman looks at the nails of her left hand, first by curling them inward, then stretching her palm and spreading her fingers out. The diamond bedecking her ring finger is so large and sparkling that it creates fragmented, dancing light patterns over the walls. “I told Maryann I’d just lost one of my trainers—idiot decided to move to Montana because he wasfinally fed up with the heat.” She uses air quotes with her fingers as she says it, rolling her eyes. “And Maryann told me she knew of just the person who could fill the spot.”
The words start to intertwine in Grace’s brain like a tangle of barbed wire. She can’t imagine how she must look right now, and trying to make sense of it only confuses her more, so finally she blurts out the question she should’ve asked right out of the gate. “Forgive me, ma’am,” Grace says breathily, holding out her hands. “But would you mind telling me who you are?”
The woman lets out a soft chuckle. How a chuckle can sound elegant, Grace isn’t sure, but the woman manages it. “I was wondering when you’d ask.” She sticks out a hand in Grace’s direction. “I’m Renata Caldwell. I own Halcyon Ranch.”
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
That night, in the parkinglot of the studio apartment she lives in on the edge of town, Grace calls Maryann from a prepaid cell phone. “C’mon, c’mon,” Grace mutters as she paces back and forth, cursing the woman for only having a landline.
Maryann picks up on the fifth ring, simply shouting,“What?”
The familiar annoyance in her tone sends a pang of homesickness shooting through Grace’s gut. With a little smile, she says, “It’s Grace.”
“Oh,” Maryann sighs. “Hi, honey. Been a while.”
They exchange quick pleasantries before Grace reveals the true reason for the phone call. “I met Renata Caldwell today.”
“Well, that woman works quickly, I’ll tell you what. Didn’t waste a single second findin’ you in that Podunk town. She offer you that job?”
Grace chuckles in disbelief. “She offered me ashotat the job, but only because you talked me up more than you should’ve, I’m sure. What’d you even say to her?”
“I told her the truth! You’re the finest horse trainer in the state, and she just so happens to have a job opening for a horse trainer. Don’t question my judgment.”
Grace looks up at the sky, rubbing her thumb and index fingers across her brow. “I wasn’t planning on going back to training. Or ranching, for that matter.” A beat of silence hangs between them, and Grace wonders for a second if Maryann’s hung up. The only indication that she hasn’t is the sudden click of her teeth. Grace frowns. “Maryann?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the older woman says, “I was just sittin’ here wondering if you’re stupid or just plain dumb.”
Grace’s mouth falls open in indignation. “That’s—”
“Listen to me. You spent almost a decade of your life in this hellhole until you mustered up the courage to walk away, and I’m so proud of you for that, Grace.” Unexpected tears start welling in Grace’s eyes at her words—she fights them off by gritting her teeth and exhaling deeply through her nostrils. “But if you stay away, if you leave behind the thing you love the most because you’re scared, or hurting, orstubborn, well…”
The neon sign above her head detailing the name of the run-down complex blinks in an uneven flicker, a death rattle of light. Grace’s voice is shaky as she asks, “Well, what?”
“You’d be lettin’ that rotten bastard win. Is that really something you want to do?”
Grace sighs, crouching down onto a curb and setting her forehead between her knees. She doesn’t respond right away, but she doesn’t have to. They both know the answer to that question, even if only one of them is brave enough to say it out loud.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Restless, Grace lies in bed,trying and failing to balance the tip of her knife on her index finger. She catches it each time it topples over, letting out long, dramatic trills through her lips whenever her eyes dance over to the upturned milk crate she’s using as a nightstand. Renata’s card sits on top of a couple of dusty books, staring at her. Grace sets the knife down atop her stomach and reaches for the card, impressed by the weight of it. It feels and looks expensive—the looping letters of Renata’s name are perfectly placed and embossed. Her phone number is bordered in gold.
The sound of a drip near the tiny bathroom interrupts herexamination, and Grace’s eyes flit upward. The ceiling is patched with water stains; it wouldn’t be surprising for chunks of drywall to start tumbling down at any moment. Above her, moldy ceiling, and below her, a ratty carpet, in the kind of condition that screams it’s seen things she can’t even begin to imagine. And to top it off, her absolute favorite part of living here is sharing an extremely thin wall with Hutch Lawson, the circumstances of which seem to get worse with every passing night. The man’s hand must be as soft as a baby’s bottom at this point. Grace looks at her watch and sighs, knowing he’s probably settling down with his brick of a laptop and bottle of Vaseline right about now.
Like clockwork, she hears the telltale sound of a belt and jeans being unbuckled. Tossing the card onto the milk crate and grabbing a pillow from the other side of the bed, Grace covers her face and ears with it, pushing as hard as she can to drown out the inevitable wet slapping sound that is soon to follow.
It doesn’t help. Hutch gets carried away, and when he does, he’s unconscionably loud.
With an annoyed grunt, Grace slams the pillow back onto the bed and sits up. She doesn’t think twice when she grabs the card and her cell phone and leaves the apartment, making sure to slam the door extra loudly behind her so Hutch knows he’s disturbed her eveningagain.
