Chapter 9 Show Pony
Show Pony
Quinn
The conversation I had with Tripp in the barn last night runs through my head as I throw my hair into a messy bun.
He’s always been able to find the right things to say, to make me believe I’m not lacking the way I sometimes feel I am.
But when I’m alone again, those doubts creep back in, sharper in the quiet.
So, I tug on a sweatshirt and grab a few sad-looking vegetables from Pops’ fridge as a treat for Winston before I head into the brisk morning.
He gives a snort, greeting me as I enter the barn, followed by happy little snuffles and tail wags when he realizes I’ve brought him some food.
The way to that pig’s heart is definitely through his stomach.
“Hi, buddy. How's the cutest piggy I've ever seen?”
He squeals impatiently, making it very clear I’m not moving fast enough. The shallow dish I left last night is already tipped over and shoved to the back of the stall.
“I’m getting it. Hold on.”
I push through the gate, blocking Winston’s escape attempt with my leg, and shut it behind me while juggling the feed bucket and sidestepping the worst of the muck. His squeals only get louder as I fumble with the bucket.
“You’re an impatient thing, aren’t you?”
He nudges me with his head and snorts at my feet.
“God damn. That thing has got to be the loudest animal I’ve ever had in this barn,” Wes says, making me jump.
With all the noise, I hadn’t heard him come in.
“He just wants his breakfast,” I say, flipping his dish back over.
Winston lunges at the empty dish. I sigh, grabbing a chunk of zucchini and tossing it into the corner. He follows, letting me finally fill his dish with feed and a few extra veggies as a treat.
He eats with happy grunts and snuffles, and I smile gleefully with my hands on my hips.
Wes passes me a shovel over the gate and parks a dirty wheelbarrow next to the stall. “You good to get your own hay? Tripp’s tacking up the horses so we can go check for new calves.”
I nod, taking the shovel and brushing dirt off my hands. “I’ve got it. I might check in on Pops later this afternoon, so call me if you need anything.”
“Sawyer is making supper at our place. If you want to swing by later, you’re welcome,” he says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the tail of his shirt.
“Okay, I’ll see where I’m at once I finish with Pops.” I heave a shovelful of muck into the wheelbarrow. “See you later.”
He waves and stomps out of the barn.
Once I finish mucking out Winston’s stall and putting away the supplies, I grab some gloves and decide the flower garden that was Grams’ pride and joy looks like it could use a good weeding.
It’s not exactly warm, but after mucking, the sun and physical labor have me overheating.
I pull off my sweatshirt and toss it on the grass to kneel on while I pull weeds.
It’s only March, but we’re in what locals call fool’s spring—warm days that make you think spring has arrived, only for it to turn cold and possibly snowy again.
The sound of horses pulls my attention to the stable where Tripp and Wes are mounted. Wes’ horse, Luci, trots off toward the pasture, but Tripp pulls June to a stop in front of me. He lifts his hat in greeting.
“Hey,” I say, squinting at the sun’s glare.
“Hey yourself.”
I look up at Tripp astride the horse with a Stetson on his head and the sleeves of his western shirt rolled to his elbows, revealing thick, muscled forearms etched with tattoos.
My eyes flick over the dark lines on his tanned skin—and I catch him glancing down at me at the same time, his gaze lingering.
“How’s Winnie the pig?” he asks, pulling me from my appraisal.
“He’s good. I think he’d be more comfortable in a pen out here,” I say, pointing to the stretch of lawn under the apple trees, buds decorating the limbs. “I’ll need to fence it, build a little shelter, maybe add a shallow pool for him to wallow in.”
Tripp nods. “You planning on doing all that yourself?”
I shrug. “Unless you’ve got a trick up your sleeve on how to get Wes to do it all for me.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Get Sawyer to ask him.”
I wrinkle my nose. "I’m not asking Sawyer for any more favors. I still owe her for transporting Winston."
“Just name the day, and I’ll help you put the pen together.”
“You don’t need to.”
He rolls his eyes and squints down at me. “Shut up, Quinnie. I’m not letting you do it all by yourself, and Wes has a full plate right now. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to help.”
I pull a face. “I’ll consider it.”
Tripp snorts as he glances to where Wes is riding in the distance. “I don’t have time to argue with you right now. Wes is gonna be pissy if I lag.”
I laugh. “My brother’s always pissy about something.”
“Don’t I know it. We’ll finish this talk later... or I’ll just show up and build you a pen in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He chuckles. “See you later, Quinnie.”
I offer him a smile and a lame wave and then get to work trimming the overgrown plants and bushes before I pull the weeds.
It’s a relaxing task—mindless in a way I’ve needed. It helps clear my head and think about what’s next.
Pops is stuck in the nursing home for a couple of weeks. Once he’s home, I’ll be tied to wherever he is until he gets stronger. Then I’ll have to start looking for another job.
I already miss the hustle and bustle of the clinic.
It’s all I’ve known for the past several years—the rhythm of the work caring for animals day in and day out.
Even after Beau cheated and made seeing him every day a nightmare, it was easy enough to bury myself in the work and ignore the rest… until it wasn’t.
I still haven’t told Mom I’m staying at the ranch longer than a few days. I don’t want to think about what her reaction will be. Maybe I’ll just send her an email. It might be simpler that way.
Janine Dawson could be an exacting woman. I don’t doubt she loves me, but she also has her own ideas and opinions about my life. And she’s never been shy about sharing them—especially with how I’ve still never managed to get a man to commit (at thirty-two, no less).
She’d say, “With how beautiful you are, it really shouldn’t be an issue. Men would jump at the chance to have you, and yet you chase them away within a few months every time.”
I have always been her pristine little trophy—more show pony than daughter. Someone she could parade around at holiday parties, brag about to her friends, list off my accomplishments like bullet points: top of my class, graduated summa cum laude, promotion before 30. I looked good on paper.
And maybe it’s not fair to complain. My mom loves me, in her way. She’s never been cruel—just singularly focused. She wanted the glossy Christmas card version of family. The Pinterest board. Grandbabies in matching onesies. A smiling daughter who gave her no cause for concern.
For a long time, I bought into that vision too. I thought life was about checking the boxes: straight-A student, vet school, competitive residency, becoming one of the best in my field.
Relationships? They always came second. I’m sure it comes as a surprise to almost no one that men don’t like playing second fiddle to a woman’s ambition. Almost every breakup I’ve had has come down to that.
But I wouldn’t let a man’s insecurity slow me down or hold me back. I worked hard. Whether it was school, showing horses, or my career—I wanted to be the best.
It hadn’t always felt so smothering. But recently? I’ve begun to wonder what I’m missing. Staring at the freshly turned earth, dirt under my nails, I can’t help but hope that whatever it is, I’ll find it here in Cottonwood Creek.