I squint. Pickup truck with the Whittaker Farms and Equestrian logo slapped on the side. Definitely not Rod and his mom van. I try to ignore the butterflies dropping dead in the pit of my stomach.
‘You got company,’ I nudge Rebecca, who’s still fawning over the photos of her shed.
‘Oh!’ She looks up at the truck, and then, ‘Must be Genny. Gosh, what’s that girl doing here?’
Sure enough, Rod’s older sister is heading our way, boots, jeans, and all. ‘Beck and Jordan!’ she calls with a wave. ‘What did you two do?’
‘Painted my shed.’ Rebecca gestures to the art project with a proud arm full of thick bangles and Pandora bracelets. ‘Look at her! It’s all Jordan. This kid, I tell you.’
‘Stop it,’ I tease, shooting her a grin. ‘You’re spoiling me. It’sthe least I could do considering you’re lettin’ me stay here with the rent you’re charging for that beautiful guesthouse, you know. This place, this entire town …’ I sigh. Where do I even start? I love Oklahoma enough. But this is a different sort of pretty, straight out of a Pinterest page. Scenic downtown, rolling-hill-type farms, impossibly aesthetic ranch houses. The coastline just a short drive away.
‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Genny quirks her head with a smile rife with a joke only she seems to understand. ‘Well, anyhow. I had a sort of strange request for you, Jordan, if you’d be willing to double-time on jobs for the day.’
‘I got zero other things to be doing. Shoot.’ I wince a little internally. This is all I did back home. Maybe I should take a break. But when it’s all I’ve done for years, my brain and body don’t know anything else, as much as I want to force myself to embrace the languid camp coach-tourist lifestyle.
‘How good are you with horses? Colt mentioned something the other day.’
‘Good as good gets. I grew up with ’em.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘What’s the job?’
‘Well … I’m short a few farmhands today, and I got quite a few horses to bring in for a lesson. Would you be willing to pitch in?’
‘Would I be willing?’ I can’t help the big grin that comes out. As much as I’m an unhealthy workaholic when it comes to the horses back home, I do love them dearly. And Genny’s offer is all the horses with none of the ranch-related stress. ‘Lemme get a chai in my system and I’m game.’
‘Good!’ chirps Genny. ‘Just so you know. I’m asking my brother to help us.’
Genny flits off to her truck, and Rebecca just lets out a laugh beside me.
‘What’s so funny?’ I chide her, sliding the paints aside so I can get up and fix my hair. Fix my hair? Since when did I care what my hair looked like before heading to the farm to get shat on by animals? Jordan. Homegirl.
‘Oh, honey. Let me tell you,’ Rebecca chortles. ‘That girl is so clever, I’ll have you know. I’m sure as sure she’s not missing any farmhands today.’
The drive out to the Wilsons’ property once more reminds me of just how huge it is, for an equestrian facility. They’ve got multiple paddocks, a large section of land for grazing. The evening of the championship bonfire, I didn’t get the sort of look at it I’m getting now, and it’s pretty incredible. A piece of home, up in New England.
Genny brings her truck in near the barn, which immediately triggers not unwelcome memories of beer, s’mores, and hands on asses. I have to shake the intrusions away as Genny and I head up the path to the doors.
‘You,’ she says as we enter the familiar space, work boots slapping the floors, ‘are going to get along wonderfully with Hermes.’
‘I trust you,’ I hum. Genny leads me to the stable of that same beautiful roan stallion I’d seen a week back. He pokes his head out, as if alerted to our presence; unlike some of the skittish quarter horses I’ve worked with in the past, he stays there even as I approach. ‘Hey, old pal.’
Genny’s right: he warms up to me fast, as I give him my hand to sniff. He nuzzles it immediately, all excited to get attention.
‘Gen, are you making guests do our chores again?’ a woman calls from behind us.
She looks extremely similar to Genevieve – the same eyes and nose, but with a sharper jaw and black hair instead of brown. Rather than Genny’s bootcuts and T-shirt, she wears a pair of flared jeans with a loose white blouse and designer tennis shoes.
‘I never made anyone do our chores!’ Genny retorts with a mischievous smile. ‘Jordan, this is Bianca, our oldest sister.’
‘Jordan …’ Something registers in Bianca’s eyes as she regards me, lips pursed as if holding back a smirk of her own. I detect a note of Boston in her voice. ‘Very nice to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you too.’ I beam at the majestic stallion. ‘Y’all both have gorgeous horses.’
‘Just Genny,’ laughs Bianca. ‘I don’t live out here. I’m in Boston, handling the family restaurant. This is a rare occurrence.’
‘She hates me,’ Genny says matter-of-factly.
‘Oh, shut up,’ quips Bianca, rolling her eyes. ‘Where’s the baby, Gen?’
I’m still trying to absorb the lore I’ve evidently become privy to. Family restaurant? Farm? What in the Wilsons?
