She does this for ten minutes. Walk, trot, lope, change, lope, trot, walk, change…and so on. No flair. No big movements. Every cue is small. By the end of it Riot is licking and chewing—a typical sign of tension release. His gaze is soft, his head is low, and he's offering her his attention without her having to ask for it.
She stops him, drops the line, and walks up to his shoulder. She pats and rubs his neck, murmuring praise, and I pick upgood boyas she scratches his face until he’s nudging her elbow.
I’ve watched a hundred trainers work this horse. Some of them famous. Some of them the best in the country.
He’s run roughshod over most of them.
Laurel did in ten minutes what those trainers couldn’t do over weeks.
And she did it without a whip or yelling.
I think I’m in love.
I’m falling for this woman like a kid falling out of a tree—fast, hard, and painfully. Because this woman will definitely leave bruises.
She glances over and I tip my chin. "Lookin' good out there."
She smiles. “Thanks."
She walks Riot in a slow lap to cool him off.
I sit on the fence for the rest of the session, watching in awe.
By late afternoon I've watched her work Riot twice (the roll of her hips in the saddle near killed me), eaten lunch across the table from her (a turkey and cheese sandwich she insisted on making us, though I’d eat my own boot if she handed it to me on a plate), then I spent an hour on the porch pretending to read while she went off on a hike up the ridge by herself. I've learned she likes to take walks. She’ll disappear for a bit, then comes back looking a little less wound up.
I'd hike too if I could put weight on this damn foot.
The ankle is screamingenoughby the time the sun starts going down. Between the PT the doc has me doing, the limping around the property, and the sitting awkwardly on the fence rail too long today—I’m cooked.
What I need is a long, hot, soak.
I’ve only ever taken a shower since I busted my ankle, but Doc said baths are fine as long as I keep the ankle out. And right now the idea of sinking into hot water is the only thing keeping me from chewing through the wall.
I haul myself to the primary bath and start the tub running. Hot as it'll go. I dig around under the sink and find an oldbottle of bubble bath my mama had—lavender and eucalyptus, according to the label. Whatever…I hurt everywhere.
I dump in a generous pour. The water foams up white and the whole bathroom smells like a spa I went to in Beverly Hills once.
I sit on the toilet and remove the brace, then peel off my shirt, jeans, and boxers. By the time I'm naked and balanced on my good foot, holding onto the vanity, I'm sweating and breathing through my teeth.
The tub is one of those deep clawfoot numbers my mama picked out forty years ago with high sides and designed for a woman half my size. The grab bar I had installed last year when my aunt came to stay runs along the wall right next to it.
My plan is to keep my hand on the grab bar, sit on the edge of the tub and swivel my good leg in first, then use it to lower down slowly.
I get the good leg in and stabilize my foot on the porcelain. I ease my weight onto it, hand white-knuckled on the grab bar—and the wet ball of my heel slides a half inch on the slick tub bottom.
It's just a wobble. But I’ve spent weeks not trusting my ankle, so I panic and grab for the nearest thing.
The shampoo shelf.
And the whole thing comes off in my hand.
"FUCK."
Luckily, most of my weight was on my foot, so I just sink down into the water harder than I wanted to…and end up taking the shelf and three bottles down with me.
Plastic clatters off the porcelain, and water sloshes over the side in a small tidal wave.
I lift my bad ankle, which miraculously didn’t hit anything, and rest it on the edge of the tub.
