True To Your Boots

Prologue

It was like that Imagine Dragons concert back in college.

I stood, front row in the pit, my ribs bruising from the swell of people pushing me into the railing.

The pulse of percussion rattled my brain, and the amplified bass stretched over my skin, infusing its rhythm over my own until we were in sync.

Until my heart slammed against its cage to prove its worth.

Like that, only I wasn’t at a concert. I was at work. No instruments, no throngs of people. Just me, Kip, and the squeak of her chair as she shifted.

I pushed a palm into my chest and moved away from the office window, regretting the eggs I had for breakfast. “I can’t watch.”

“They sure do like the rush,” Kip agreed into the pages of the Hidden Meadows account book. Her birth certificate listed her as Nancy Stein, but she preferred Kipper, so that’s what everyone called her.

From our single-wide trailer between the round pen and the horse barn, I had a perfect view of the boys at work. Today’s activities deviated from their normal routine. Jason was jogging our newest addition, a wild mustang, in circles to shake off some of its angst.

Maybe that’s what I needed, a few laps.

Jason wore his leathers and the white Stetson I’d bought him last Christmas.

I’d teased him when he asked for it. “White? Really? On a working ranch? Isn’t that bad luck or something?

” And when he ripped off the Christmas Cow paper, I’d announced, “I’m not buying you another one when this gets stained. ”

He had pressed the stiff, pale felt to his chest and leaned forward to kiss me. “It’s perfect, baby. I have all I need. One and done.”

“Ditto.”

He was it, and I’d lied. I would have bought him a hundred hats if he’d asked. That night, we’d promised to buy the ranch. And then I soaked his white hat in Scotchgard.

Motion outside ceased in an eerie calm as Jason brought the horse to a stop at the center of the pen, a tableau like one of our ranch postcards.

Ranch hands hovered at the outer edges of the circle, and customers in wide-brimmed sun hats and chunky sunglasses watched from the shade of velvet mesquite trees.

He’d worn his white hat every day for the past six months, but today, it seemed … out of place. Showy and overconfident.

I frowned.

Kip’s chair squeaked as she shifted. “He’ll be fine.”

But an uneasy feeling shook my confidence, like heavy winds building around the nexus of a tornado. Silly, since Arizona rarely saw tornadoes. It must’ve been the humming breeze of the air conditioning working at full capacity.

Still. “He refuses to wear a helmet.”

Kip scoffed. “As did his ancestors.”

His people caught and trained horses in nothing but leather long before Phoenix became …

well, Phoenix. How could I protest? It was his male bravado that first attracted me.

I spun my wedding band around my finger.

Horse’s blood practically ran in Jason’s veins–Phoenix’s local horse whisperer–the reason Terry agreed to sell us the ranch when he retired.

Our very own heaven on Earth: rusty mountains under a forget-me-not sky.

I chewed the inside of my lip.

Kip peered over her readers at me. “Ava, go sit down! You’re starting to make me nervous.”

The ringing of the main office line cut off my rebuttal. I sighed, leaning a thigh into the edge of my worn wood desk, and reached for the receiver. “Hi! I’m so glad you called Hidden Meadows Horse Ranch. This is Ava.”

My eyes drifted back to the window.

Jason was checking the saddle, running a hand over the horse’s flinching withers. The animal flicked its head from side to side.

“Of course!” I told the caller. “Would you like to saddle–” A desperate puff of laughter escaped me. “I’m sorry. Would you like to schedule a tour?” Focus, Ava.

After flipping through the appointment book, I rattled off the open slots. “And what’s the best number to reach you?” The ten digits barely fit on the tiny line. “Uh-huh. Seven-six-one-three?”

Whistles and cheers rose outside.

“Great, Carla! We look forward to seeing you and your daughter next Tuesday!”

“Another one?” Kip asked. Her chair croaked as she leaned back to settle her full attention on me–a rare occurrence. “You know, you’re lucky that boy is so devoted to you.”

“It’s not for lessons. They’re looking to board.”

Rumors had spread that our lessons hit capacity because my very handsome husband ran them. I popped off the desk like I had ants in my cutoffs. Jason sat up in the saddle now.

“Boarding,” Kip muttered. “That’s something.”

“Don’t sound too excited,” I teased.

“How about a little less sass, and a little more work?” She angled back to her books.

I stared at the white roots sneaking in under her auburn dye job, a rich, variegated white that spoke of wisdom and maturity, which she insisted on covering in an unnatural hue of red.

I’d never hide my proof of having lived, learned, and loved.

Of surviving the first few years of motherhood.

If people asked me why I let my hair turn, I’d tell them I earned it.

Outside, the mustang reared, but Jason held fast, staying on with a squeeze of strong thighs. Ironically, it might be him who gives me my first gray hair. Nina was an easy baby.

I plodded around the side of my desk, flopped into the wheezy second-hand swivel chair, and gave it a reluctant spin.

Cobwebs danced overhead with each pirouette of the ceiling fan.

Work waited for me. Accounts to review, feed orders to submit, flyers to make for the Rodeo …

I needed to track down Terry to sign for the repairs on the horse barn.

I kicked my embroidered cowboy boots up on the desk and started chipping at my blue nail polish. Little midnight flecks fell onto my yellow top. Jason’s hat swooped by the window like a ghost. “Hey, Kip, white hats aren’t bad luck, are they?”

“What?”

“Never mind. You want some coffee?”

She snickered. “Why don’t you go take a walk? Or check on Nina?”

“What if the phone rings?”

While she excelled at finding mistakes and missed payments, Kip lacked a certain grace with customers. After a few complaints, Terry unplugged her phone.

She sighed, flagging a page with a yellow Post-it. “Fine. I’ll take some coffee.”

I jumped up and crossed to the folding table in the corner that served as our kitchenette—coffee maker, hot plate, microwave, and a dented mini fridge shoved under the table.

A crowd had gathered around the pen outside. People held their phones over their heads, taking pictures. It looked more rodeo than our annual, organized one. My stomach churned.

I fitted the paper filter into the black tray and measured coarse coffee grounds from an extra-large tin can, but halfway through, I lost count of my scoops. Then I second-guessed if I even wanted coffee. “I think I’ll check on Nina while this brews,” I told Kip.

“Good idea.”

“If the phone rings, let it go to voicemail.”

I was halfway to the door when Kip stopped me. “You plan on putting water in that coffee?”

“Oh, right.” Focus, Ava! I used my legs to lift the heavy water jug. I’d nixed the water cooler dispenser. A penny saved is a penny–

Urgent shouts erupted outside.

My eyes sliced to the window. People were staggering away from the arena with wide eyes, their hands flying to their mouths.

The jug fell with a sloshy thud on the corner of the table and cracked open, spewing water everywhere. My husband’s white hat sailed over the scene.

But it wasn’t on his head.