Chapter 9
I give up my search after that, walking back to the stable with my head still low and with every intention of going for a ride until I have to be back at the saloon tonight.
It’ll help. Always does. If I can clear my mind for a bit, ride fast and pretend like I don’t have to turn around, it’ll help. Lessen how tight my chest feels as I round the barn for the pastures, unable to stop my hands from shaking even after I shove them in my pockets and pick up my pace.
It’ll help. I only need to get out of here for a little while. I only need—
I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the gate of the pasture where I left the mustang this morning, staring at the rope securing it to the fence post like it’s a rattler about to bite me.
The repurposed lead was altered while I’ve been gone, my hasty but sturdy (or so I thought) tie-off replaced with something that looks far less effective, but I’m relieved to see that the mustang is still here and currently plodding toward me.
Unfortunately, for the second time today, my relief is short-lived.
I can’t get the damn thing to budge. No matter how hard I tug at the knot or at either of the loose ends, the tie holds fast, well after the mustang has arrived to observe. And he’s not the only one.
“Did you do this?” I ask the same boy I’d snapped at this morning, who’s stopped to watch me struggle on his way to muck stalls. “Did you mess with this gate?”
“No, sir,” he says with a shake of his head.
“But I know there’s a trick to it.” The corner of his mouth lifts as he steps up to the gate and gestures at the piece of rope in my hand.
“You have to take that end and put it back through the loop first.” When I only stare at him, he offers, “You need me to do it for you?”
“I got it,” I reply tersely, willing to follow the instruction as long as it gets the fuckin’ gate open. “Now what?”
“Tug on the end.” The continued skepticism must be obvious on my face, because he adds, “Just try it. You’ll see.”
I give the rope a sharp jerk, still expecting nothing to happen, even as it easily comes undone in my hand.
“Neat, right?” the boy asks. “I guess it’s called a quick release? I’ve been practicing with it all morning.”
“Then it can’t be very quick, can it?” I glare at him in what I hope is a clear warning. “Don’t be practicing on my gate.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t. I’m not the one who… Say…” I’m sized up for the second time this morning, although perhaps more efficiently, given the way he starts dancing from foot to foot. “Say, are you him?”
Really, really need to get out of town.
“No,” I tell the kid as I yank the gate open. “I’m not.”
“Oh,” the kid says, disappointed. “You sure? You know who I mean, right? That famous shooter? My pa and I used to see stuff about him in the paper all the time.” He sighs, scuffing his filthy boots in the dirt. “I want to be just like him when I get big.”
It’s right there, the tattered edge of a memory, those snippets of stories in papers, of another boy and his father reading them aloud. A different memory than the one that keeps me up most nights, so close that I feel as if I could grab it if I only reached out my hand for it.
But I know better than to try.
“You don’t,” I say as I take the now-free rope and loop it around the mustang’s neck, leading him back toward the barn. “Trust me.”