I stayed up too late thinking about her, then found myself napping the day away.
Riot’s been tearing the place apart since she left. He paces the fence line, then plants himself by the gate and stares down the drive like he can summon her back by pure horse magic.
And he’spissedat me. He's stopped taking treats from my hand. Cold-shoulders me when I bring him hay. Last night I stood at his stall door and apologized, and he turned his rear end toward me, lifted his tail, and took a dump right there. I don’t think he could be any clearer to how he feels about it all.
I even called Maverick yesterday.
That conversation was interesting. I'd been rehearsing exactly how to tell my old buddy that I’d slept with his sister, fell in love with her, and now she’s gone, leaving me a miserable piece of shit.
“Aw, hell, Beck," he’d said, after I spilled my guts.
Then he was quiet for a long time.
"You’re really in love with her?" he finally said, on a sigh.
"You know me, Mav. Have I ever mentioned love when it came to women before?"
He went quiet again. Long enough I started wondering if I should hang up and call back next year.
"Goddammit, Beck." And I knew he was mad because Mav doesn’t swear. "I told you not to be an ass."
"Tried, brother. Got pretty close," I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He blew out a breath that crackled the line. "Did she cry?"
"Yeah, not in front of me though.”
He sniffed. "Sounds like Laurel."
He didn't yell at me after that. Didn't tell me to go to hell. Just said he'd keep me posted on how she was doing in Texas. And that was good enough for me.
I've also been calling around for trainers, too. But half-hearted at best. There's a guy out by Steamboat Springs who trains cutting horses and could drive over a couple of days a week. There's a young woman fresh out of a working-student program looking for steady hours. And I found a retired ranch hand named Chet who knew my dad, though he's seventy-five.
None of them are right.
I tell myself I just want what's best for Riot. He needs a particular kind of rider, after all. But I know I'm looking for Laurel in everybody else and not finding her, and acting surprised every single time.
She was so special…in so many ways.
Now it's dusk, and I'm on the porch because there's nowhere else in this house I haven't already worn out. The light goes long across the pasture and turns the tops of the pines that smoky gold that always made my mother sigh through the screen door.
I have a beer and my boots are propped on the cedar crate. Riot's at the fence line, head low, ears soft for the first time all day, watching the same stretch of road I've been watching…both of us doing the same dumb thing.
I think about her last ride.
I sat right here while she took him out. She was gone an hour and when she came back, she ran a hand down his neck, leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his mane, and said something I couldn't hear. Riot stood as still as a statue. He’s never done that before…even on set.
By the time she swung down and led him into the barn, my chest was aching.
She came out a half hour later, eyes red and puffy like she’d cried until there was nothing left.
I wanted to beg her not to go, or let me come with her, or give me more time….any excuse to keep her here. But I held my tongue.
When she looked at me, I just opened my arms, and she walked right into them as if it was exactly where she needed to be. I held on tight, memorized the scent of her sweat, the land, and Riot on her.
I wanted to kiss her, but I knew I couldn't do that. Not without losing myself right there.
And she didn't need to carry that down the mountain on top of everything else.
