Chapter 4
ROWE
The black horse has been in the pen all night, snorting and huffing like it’s trying to blow out fucking candles.
I’ve been up for just as long as he has. First, I went to my place and drank enough Jack to settle my no-good thoughts for a few hours, and then I walked right back to the pen. It took me too damn long, and now I’m flirting with sunrise.
I’m close enough to sober now as I approach the fence and notch my foot on the bottom post. The horse notices me right away, his front hoof slashing at the dirt.
If he’s trying to scare me off, it won’t work.
I ride horses like him for a living and have been since I was eighteen and signed my life away to rodeo.
Folding my arms over the wood, I lean against it and continue to watch, waiting.
The angry bastard paces around the far side of the pen, still making enough noise to let me know he doesn’t want me anywhere close. His ears are flicking, though, not flat. That’s something.
He’s got his tail held still, not thrashing around. Maybe he’s not scared. Just real angry.
“You’re looking for a fight but don’t even know what you’re fighting,” I say.
The horse stops short and looks at me head-on, blowing hard. It punches through the silent morning like a warning shot.
“Yeah, you’re angry, alright. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Years ago, I’d have hopped into the pen with a saddle and risked far more than just my life strapping it on him and forcing myself onto his back. Shit like that was expected around here but has long since ended.
This horse doesn’t need another reason to hate people. He’s got a million already from what I can see. I don’t know where he got those scars on his back, and I don’t need to to recognize that going at this horse head-on is going to get me a rib in my throat.
Rushing this one isn’t going to work.
“You’re going to be stuck in this pen until you calm down. Can’t risk you getting on top of one of the kids mucking the stalls. Until you relax, this is your home,” I tell him, letting my voice become one he’ll learn to recognize.
He moves again, continuing his pacing along the back of the pen.
The sun is crawling higher into the sky, hitting his face and matted black mane.
He’s filthy, covered in dust and dirt and whatever else from where he came from.
I’d guess his shoes are going to need to be replaced too, though he’ll never let a farrier near them.
This horse has been neglected worse than I thought at first glance. His aggression has kept him from damn near everything.
Pushing off the fence, I head for the stable.
It’s too early for the wranglers to be up, let alone the new kids staying here for the summer.
I tug open the heavy door and step inside, my sights set on the feed room.
The hay needs restocking, so I add it to my list of shit to tell Otis and carry an armful to the round pen.
I get back and hover by the gate. Tossing one flake of hay over the edge, I watch it fall to the dirt a few feet from me. The horse startles, his shoulder twitching before he starts to circle, acting like I’ve just dropped a snake in his pen.
“It’s not poisoned,” I grunt.
The horse takes a cautious few steps toward the offering, tail swishing once. I keep still, waiting for him to decide whether or not I can be trusted with this.
Diesel would have been snout-deep in the hay already, snorting at me for taking so long to feed his greedy ass. Even when I first found him, he’d been that way. Despite all the other issues he had, trusting me wasn’t one of them. Unlike this bastard.
Stepping back, I eye the empty silver tub by the stable. He’ll probably avoid water more than the hay, but he’s gotta drink something. I don’t trust that he’s had either in a while, at least.
I leave him to figure out if he’s hungry enough to risk taking food from me and drop the rest of it by the stable before filling the tub with the hose.
Once it’s halfway full, I leave the hose on the dirt and heave the tub over to the pen.
My boots scuff the ground when I find him chomping on the hay.
Angry, but not stupid, then.
His chewing slows when he notices me coming back, but I keep my eyes forward, ignoring him as best I can while carrying the tub.
He doesn’t lurch backward, but I don’t hear him eating anymore either.
I stop further down the fence and lower the tub to the dirt.
Then, I shove it beneath the bottom slat and leave it, the water still sloshing.
He huffs again, turning from the hay to the bucket.
“Also not poison,” I tell him, backing up.
I don’t wait for him to come toward it before leaving. If he wouldn’t eat with me there, he won’t drink the water either. And I don’t trust that he won’t kick the entire thing over just to be an asshole.
The pile of hay is still by the stable, so I grab it and bring it to the pen. I drop a few more flakes of it over the railing, making sure not to give him all of it. The last thing we need is him being territorial over a king pile of food too.
I bring the rest of it through the stable and to Diesel’s stall. He’s already shoving his nose against the grates above the half-wall, snorting at me when I reach him. The difference between him and the horse outside is staggering this morning.
“No need to be jealous,” I mutter, opening the gate and stepping inside the stall.
He takes the hay directly from my arms, chomping on it like he’s been starved for a week rather than a few hours. I struggle not to laugh, this horse more like family than any of the people I know.
Once he’s done eating, I give him a few nose rubs and back out of the stall. “They’ll saddle you up soon. Try not to bite anyone today.”
He looks down at the ground once I’m back in the aisle, nosing the fallen pieces of hay he dropped. I shake my head and give the gate a smack before leaving. His tack is hung properly from when it was taken off yesterday. Could be cleaned, though.
By the time I’m back at the pen, the black horse is drinking the water. It’s damn near gone already, so I grab the hose and bring it back over to the tub. He backs up immediately, ears flicking before disappearing into his messy mane. I step back with the hose, bringing it away from him.
His ears go back up, though not all the way.
No hoses, then.
I bring it back to the stable and opt for waiting until he’s moved on from the water to fill it. It’ll need to be taken from the pen and filled away over here.
“Do you want me to saddle him for you?”
I look over my shoulder, taking in the obvious fear flashing on Brock’s face. He clearly didn’t mean his offer. The other hands would be cleaning his shit off the dirt instead of the horses if he tried.
“No.”
“He’s been in there all night.”
“Yep.”
“So . . . you’re not going to ride him?”
“No. He’s not ready.”
“When will he be?”
I lean my front against the railing, watching as the horse abandons the water tub and goes back to the far side of the pen, resuming his pacing.
“Not for a while yet. I don’t want you doing anything for this one. No food, no water. Don’t open the fucking gate either.”
“Are you going to be able to help him?”
Pushing away from the fence, I raise my arms above my head and stretch. My forehead is already slick beneath my hat as the sun warms the ranch quickly.
“I’ll help him. We don’t give up on horses here,” I say, a lethal edge to my words.
Brock’s swallow is audible. “Got it.”
“Tell the other kids what I told you. If they don’t listen, they’ll be lucky to wind up in the hospital instead of dead on the dirt.”
He pales, and I’m glad to see it. Means he’s listening to me.
Working here sounds fun when you’re a high school kid looking to make some money hanging around horses in the sun all summer, but they learn quickly it’s not that simple.
There are risks with this job, and they’re far deadlier than flipping burgers or telling ghost stories at a summer camp.
“Okay,” he mutters, nodding too quickly.
I move around his partially hunched figure and leave him standing there.
The holler of deep voices from down the road snags my attention.
Otis leads the pack, his old knees probably creaking with his slightly limped steps.
His brown hat is tipped low on his face as he puffs his cigarette and punches Tanner’s arm when he spits what I know is the chew he always keeps in his lip. Nasty habit.
The wranglers nod at me as they pass on their way into the stable, but it’s Otis who lingers back a few steps. I don’t say a word as I lead him to the side of the stable, but he follows nonetheless.
“Morning, Rowe. You look like shit again.”
The smell of the smoke puffing out of his mouth makes my muscles stiffen, memories of fighting for prison cigarettes trying to fill my head. Tonguing my cheek, I snatch the smoke from between his lips and drop it to the dirt, crushing beneath my boot.
“Need more hay in the feed room,” I snap, chest tight.
Otis’s brow twitches before rising, squinting as the sun crests behind my head. “Early morning chores?”
“Fed the penned horse. Not fucking chores.”
“What’s your plan with that thing?”
“Gonna be slow work. I’ve got a show in Lethbridge this weekend I’ll be gone for. I’ll try and get him alright with being fed by others by then.”
Otis nods, leaning back on his foot. “You run that by your dad?”
“I’m thirty-three,” I grunt, wishing I’d kept his smoke so I could have puffed on it.
Not to mention, he wants me performing. Anything to bring in money for the ranch.
Bucking on horses at shows with the Painted Sky name branded all over the chutes and winning has always been the only way I’ve captured even a sliver of his approval.
Now that my sentence is officially done, I can travel outside of Alberta, which means even more money for him.
Otis pulls his hat off and smooths a wrinkled hand over his balding head. “You hear about the groomer?”
“Ours?”
“Yeah. She got a job in Saskatchewan and left this morning.”
I scratch my scruffy jaw. “Dad got a replacement yet?”
“Not yet, far as I know. Wanted to give you a heads-up. That black horse needs a groomer real bad.”
“He won’t have a groomer near him for a while, Otis. It doesn’t matter who we hire.”
He’s quiet for a minute. Too goddamn quiet.
“What?”
“Word has it Tilly Whittman is back in town.”
My breath expels in a rabid puff. I curl my fingers before shoving them beneath my armpits as I cross my arms.
“That so? I haven’t heard about it,” I reply, too slowly.
“Because you don’t leave the ranch. Take a drive into town and you’ll hear so much about it you’ll wanna pull your hair out.”
I wet my lips as they try to curl downward. “She’s not working here. Bring her up to my dad and we’ll have it out in front of the entire ranch until we can’t go any longer.”
He lifts his hands, half grinning as he chuckles. “I’m not picking a fight. Just wanted to mention it so you weren’t taken aback when news got here.”
“You’re a shit liar,” I grunt, frustration burning like a poison inside my chest. “Ash didn’t tell me she was back.”
“I doubt he’s had time.”
Ash Whittman has been my closest friend since childhood. He should have told me his sister was here. It should have been him in front of me right now, ruining the careful life I’ve built around myself since getting parole.
I stretch out my neck, grinding my molars. “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s not stepping one foot back on this ranch, Otis. It doesn’t matter to me how good she is. End of discussion. Don’t bring it up again.”
“You got it, kid. Consider it dropped.”
I tip my chin once. The need to disappear is there, coaxing me as I sidestep Otis and back away. Diesel’s inside, but so is everyone else. The last thing I need is to get stuck in a conversation with the guys inside.
Fuck.
The round pen is close enough that I don’t have to walk far. I grip the railing and dig the bottom of my boot into the wood, shoving hard at it. The angry horse copies me, his hoof making deep grooves in the dirt beneath him on the far side of the pen. My nostrils flare, and so do his.
Tilly Whittman.
The same Tilly who I went to prison for. She still has too much nerve if she’s come back here after all this time. But it’s not her presence in Oak Point that pisses me off the most.
It’s the way she couldn’t even bring herself here to tell me herself. I don’t know why I expected otherwise. She ran from this place—from me—and never looked back.
Not once.