Laredo cured me of that.
And then Jolene Lyle cured me of what was left.
Now I sit. I wait. I break things by letting them decide when to come to me.
The mustang shifts his weight. One hoof. A new angle. My jaw works.
Not today, but closer than yesterday.
I stand when my coffee's gone.
Slow. No sudden movements whatsoever.
I dump the last inch in the dirt, walk to the gate, and latch it behind me.
The horse watches me leave.
He watches me leave the way a man watches another man walk out of a room with something that doesn't belong to either of them.
Iknowthe look.
I've been giving it for eight years.
* * *
The bunkhouse smells like burnt coffee and a toddler.
Shadow's at the kitchen table with his head in one hand and a bottle of children's Tylenol in the other.
A mug in front of him that's giving off something closer to sludge than coffee. His shirt's on inside out.
I notice it all, but don't dare say anything. He'll figure it out in the truck.
"You look like hell," I say. "You look like a dad."
He lifts his head. Bags under the bags. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Waylon up all night again?"
"Molars."
"Molars," I repeat.
"Grace says it's the molars. I don't know what's a molar and what isn't. I just know he was screaming at two and again at four, and the screaming wasn't for me, which—fine—but Grace was up both times, and trying to run the vet clinic at nine, and if I don't bring her a coffee at eight thirty she's going to divorce me."
"She's not going to divorce you."
"Feels like she's going to divorce me."
"Shadow."
"Mm."
"Your shirt's inside out."
He looks down, looks back up, and doesn't change it.
"I know," he says. "Waylon threw his milk on me, and I didn’t feel like changing."
