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“But he’s fair,” I said. “I’ll tell you what. If you do your absolute best and turn in all your assignments on time this summer, you can shop my closet for a vintage bag.”

“What?” She gasped.

“You have to turn in all your assignments and do your best.”

She thought a moment, then agreed. “Sure. I will do my best. Even with this stuff he has me doing!”

“It will give you a break from the homework,” I chuckled.

I left into the humidity’s full weight. I couldn’t wait to climb into my hay-infested G-Wagon and turn on the AC. Lifting my leg to the bumper, I peeled off my sweaty dress boots and tossed them into the hatch. I didn’t wait long to switch into my waiting Birkenstock slides, my feet burning on the black asphalt lot. The outfit was ridiculous, but would suit until I reached the house.

* * *

COLE

Beep! Beep! The weather radio’s unwelcome warning rang from the tack room. I finished deworming a three-year-old, tossed the tube in the trash by our wash rack, and investigated. I found Piper, my daughter, listening to the National Weather Service.

“Small Craft Advisory remains in effect until 1 AM,” it said, before rolling into, “The National Weather Service out of Chicago has issued a Special Weather Statement until 11 PM for the counties of Boone, Cook, DeKalb, DuPage… Expected impacts are strong winds, large softball-sized hail, lightning and a possibility for rotation leading to tornadoes. Stay indoors in the lowest level of the dwelling away from windows. Stay tuned to NOAA weather radio for further instructions.”

“That sounds bad,” I said. “Move the cars to the covered arena and make sure no one is in the barn.”

“Keys,” she extended her hand gleefully.

I sighed and handed them over. At fifteen, she took any chance to practice driving around the farm. Like a blast from my past, she’d driven tractors and trucks since able to reach the pedals. I still wasn’t ready to let her out on the open road, though.

I wanted to move everyone inside before it started pouring, but only after bringing a bucket of grain with me. I started with the closest horses first—the show string we turned out an hour ago. The farm was home to five client horses, six personal horses, and two broodmares with foals by their sides. I pulled Diva out first. Named appropriately by Piper, she was a bitch to catch. However, with food, she came right to the paddock. Diva was out with the lowest man in the herd, Duncan—a flashy, client-owned tobiano gelding. She wouldn’t tolerate anyone else.

Even so, she threatened him with a bite to the shoulder. Thunder rumbled. With time of the essence, I haltered her and opened the gate. I trotted her inside, Duncan following close. It was ridiculous but I preferred to stay dry. I tucked them both in stalls before heading to rescue my stallion from his small paddock opposite the barn. Double the Goods—unfortunately named Doobie by his breeder —waited like a good boy. I wanted him to be anything but Doobie. Unfortunately, he’d been a top prospect, everyone knew him, and it just stuck—more of a fascination than anything else.

“Doobs,” I scratched behind an ear as he lowered his head, “You are the best one.”

He was. I’d not tolerate a stallion with an attitude. At three, he was still the type of horse I could throw a kid on and know he’d behave. A total deadhead, I couldn’t wait to breed his calm demeanor into some babies next year.

Once I threw Doobs in a stall, Piper returned.

“Cars moved?” I asked.

“For sure.”

“Great. Come grab yours with me.”

By now, thunder and lightning were more than rumbling. Over the horizon, we spotted rain.

“Well, fuck,” I groaned.

“It’s fine,” Piper said, always glass-half-full. “We’ll get them in a jiffy.”

“Change of plans,” I said. “Broodmares first.”

We trotted ahead—halters clinking on shoulders—to run the broodmare herd and a saintly client gelding to the barn. Piper and I haltered the two lead mares, the gelding following. Foals nipped at their dam’s heels, trotting silly along their sides. In a few weeks, they’d be weaned and out with the saintly gelding alone. Our mares were recip mares—big off-the-track thoroughbreds who took embryos from our show mares and made them into leggy foals. They were the hardest working, most spoiled horses in the barn as far as I was concerned. Without them, we’d have no cash flow.

“Throw these in stalls eight and nine,” I grabbed two more halters and rushing back to the last paddock.

“Eight and nine?”

“Yep. Open all the stalls left. I will just throw the others inside.”

“Gotcha!” Piper knew it was go time.