Chapter 4
Meet the Wallaces
BILLIE
I stare at the box of toothpicks on my desk, wondering if I really could use them to hold my eyes open. Lord knows I need the help.
I’m beyond wiped. Really, bored out of my goddamn mind. Surely it’s almost quitting time?
Glancing at my laptop screen, I see that it’s 10:02 a.m.
“You gotta be kidding me. What the fuck?”
I remember how fast the time would go when I was in the arena training with Ava. Really, how fast the time would go anytime I was on horseback.
But in the office? I swear to God, time moves backward.
Probably a bad sign, considering it’s my first day back at work since my accident three weeks ago.
I’ve also had some of the worst nightmares the past few nights than I’ve had in a long time.
I’ll wake up covered in sweat and gasping for air, just like I used to do when I was little.
In one dream, I was being held underwater.
I struggled against the hand that held me down, realizing right before I woke up that it was my hand that kept me submerged.
It was weird. And more than a little terrifying, if I’m being honest.
“What’s that?” Dad spins around in his swivel chair. His desk is directly behind mine, and his legs are so long that he can almost brush the bottom of my own chair with the toes of his boots. “Your arm botherin’ you again?”
The surgery went well, and while I had a fair amount of soreness right afterward, the pain has gotten much more manageable.
Still, it’s a struggle to find a comfortable position to sleep in.
Every once in a while, I’ll forget I’m injured and push myself a little too hard, and then I’m back to popping my ibuprofen every four or so hours.
Right now, though, my arm feels fine. Surprisingly I never needed a cast; my doctor just had me wear a heavy-duty brace for two weeks post-op and gave me instructions for exercises that will help improve mobility, so I can eventually get back in the literal and proverbial saddle.
Now I just wear a sling whenever I leave the house.
What’s really chapping my ass, though, is being back at my day job.
I couldn’t really type after my surgery, so it didn’t make sense for me to work until today, when my doc gave me the all clear.
While dealing with a broken elbow is not a walk in the park, I enjoyed the hell out of being away from the office.
Sitting at my desk has been depressing in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I hadn’t realized what a lifeline barrel racing was until I couldn’t do it anymore.
“I think…” I roll back my shoulders. “I’m all right. Just tired.”
“You’re bored. I know you better than you think, sweetheart. Coming back to work after an extended break is never easy. I keep saying this, but you really do get used to it.”
It’s all I can do not to groan. I’ve been the ranch’s full-time bookkeeper for over three years now, but if anything, the days feel longer than ever.
“You even start to take pride in it because you know you’re doing work that’s just as important as the work the ranch hands do,” Dad continues.
“Because the bookkeeping is important, Billie. You can’t run an operation like ours without money and someone to manage it.
We need you here. And this stuff”—he motions to the laptop computer behind him—“you can do it anytime, anywhere, as long as you have a calculator and an internet connection. That kind of flexibility might come in handy one day.”
Really, he’s saying flexibility is important for women. In my parents’ world, women are the ones who take care of the kids, do the cooking, and clean the house so the men can go do their “Important Cowboy Things.”
Or maybe I’m just reading way too much into his comment because I’m feeling salty today.
Whatever the case, I don’t want to get into an argument this early. Dad means well. And it’s ultimately on me to figure out a way to be happy in the world I was born into.
I survived a nasty fall, didn’t I? And my older brother’s very hot best friend gave me the next best thing to an actual kiss. Not gonna lie, I’ve thought about that mouth-to-mouth moment every damn day—and night—since it happened.
Life isn’t all bad, right?
Right.
I spin my own chair around to face Dad and manage a smile. “I know. Gotta think practically.” Mom is always telling me that too.
“Practical ain’t a bad thing when so many lives and livelihoods are at stake.”
I don’t need to tell Dad the respect I have for that fact because he already knows. He raised us with a deep understanding of our responsibility to care for our land and our animals. This is life-and-death stuff we’re talking about.
I get it.
I just wish I felt more enthusiasm for my role in all of it.
Or maybe I just wish I was able to choose my role.
I think that’s part of the reason why I was so gung ho on learning how to barrel race.
I felt like I had some control—like I was choosing my destiny, as cheesy as that sounds. And that destiny felt exciting.
Now that those dreams are pretty much dead—I’m not sure I’ll have the ability to ever race again, and even if I did, I doubt I’d have my parents’ support—I feel dead inside.
It’s not like I expected to be any kind of real rodeo star.
I guess I just was secretly hoping that racing would point me in a new direction.
One that’s more exciting—that’s a better fit—than bookkeeping.
“No, sir, it’s not a bad thing.” I turn back to my computer.
Dad is quiet for a beat. I wait for him to return to his laptop, but instead, he clears his throat. “I know I’m not, uh, the best at this. Talking. But if you ever need to get something off your chest, I’m always willing to listen. You’re at an age…”
I put my fingertips on the keyboard. “Yeah?”
“Your twenties…It can be a difficult time. I didn’t get much guidance, which is why I try to give it to you.”
My shoulders slump. “I know. And I appreciate that, Dad.”
He’s a good man. I know he’s just trying to do the right thing by making sure I have a solid start on a solid career path. But sometimes I wonder if he really gets me, really knows what’s best for me, or if he just wants to keep me safe and away from the bunkhouse, where “boys will be boys.”
Or the “cowboys will be cowboys,” I guess.
I understand why Dad thinks that way. When he and Mom were my age, they were already married with a couple of kids underfoot.
Grandpa Mack was still around, so Dad was foreman before Grumpy Bud came into the picture a few years later.
Dad spent his days running the ranch, while Mom stayed home with us.
The roles they took on were—are—very traditional.
I think that’s why they both keep bringing up how important “practicality” and “flexibility” are in my career.
I wish practicality felt like freedom. The kind of freedom I felt racing at the rodeo or humming along with Ryder to Nirvana at the hospital.
Instead, flexibility feels like a cage.
I close my eyes and try to take a deep breath, but I still feel like I’m suffocating. The idea of being stuck inside this office for another interminably long day makes me feel like crying.
I am not a crier.
God, what is wrong with me? Why can’t I just go along with the great little plan my parents set up for me? Most people would kill for a plum job like this to land in their lap, one with benefits and, yes, flexibility. I feel like a brat for wanting something else.
For wanting more.
I also feel like I’d be letting down my parents—my whole family—if I bowed out of the position.
Sure, we could hire someone else to do it.
But our focus, and our resources, have been building out our training facilities and staff here on the ranch.
No one wants to take the time to find a replacement for me and train him or her.
More than that, no one wants to help me figure out what my new job would be. We don’t need any more ranch or stable hands, and my brothers have filled any other positions that might interest me.
I’ve thought about working with Ava, but I’m more interested in racing itself than teaching people how to do it. I’m also no expert, not like Ava, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need an extra trainer on her roster at the moment.
Blinking, I will myself to finish the invoices that need to be sent out by the end of the day.
The minutes creep by. I pay some bills. Chat with a hugely unhelpful rep from the accounting software we use about an issue I’m having reconciling our accounts.
I skip lunch with my family and eat a sad turkey sandwich at my desk.
After a long day, I’d ordinarily tack up my horse and go for a ride before supper.
There’s nothing like being in the saddle to help you blow off some steam and wear out your body.
I miss how tired I’d be after a good ride.
I would grab a quick, satisfying rinse in the shower, and then I’d collapse into bed where I’d sleep like a baby for eight hours straight.
But Dr. Mansfield gave me strict orders not to ride for another three weeks. Maybe more, depending on how my arm continues to heal.
I miss the smell of the barn and the feel of sun on my skin. I feel like I’m turning into a fucking vampire being stuck inside all day.
I also miss Ryder. He’s texted me a couple times to check in. My heart always skips a beat when his name pops up on my phone screen. We don’t text all that often, so it’s always a thrill to hear from him. Even if his texts were more friendly than flirty.
Would he play that humming game again with me? The game itself was simple, but there was something almost…magical about the way Ryder opened up when we played. I saw a side of him I haven’t witnessed since we were kids. He was silly and sweet and vulnerable.
He also looked really happy. Or maybe carefree is a better word. Of course he wasn’t happy we’d ended up in the ER, but he didn’t seem to mind goofing around with me for a bit.