Chapter 15
TILLY
The sun’s lowering by the time I finish with a mare named Biscuit and shut her stall door. The caramel-coloured horse with the shiny black mane that I considered braiding once or twice was my last “client” of the day, and I’m tempted to get one more in before calling it a night.
I didn’t get through even half the list today.
Petty Tilly wants to blame Rowe for that.
Having to trek up to the house and ask Faye for a list of horse names that was pinned on the grooming stall wall the entire time was a waste of time.
It was a ridiculous goose chase, and I can only imagine how proud of himself he felt hearing about the argument I had with his mother about it.
Thinking back on it now, I have no doubt she called her circle of ranch wives to talk smack about me and my attitude.
I did have an attitude. She wouldn’t exactly be lying.
Returning to my stall, I unhook the hose from the wall and start spraying down the floor.
The drain is huge and covered in shed hair.
I don’t know who the previous groomer was, but not to toot my own horn, she wasn’t as good as I am.
While I didn’t find anything outwardly sloppy or concerning when tending the horses I got to today, you can tell whoever they were liked to cut a few corners.
They clearly never used hoof oil, and at least three of the brushes hadn’t looked like they’d been cleaned .
. . ever. Some of the horses even acted as if they’d never seen a curry comb a day in their lives, and that isn’t exactly a green flag.
On a ranch with as many horses as Painted Sky, I can understand feeling like you need to move quickly.
By the time you get through ten of them, there’s another fifteen waiting.
The cycle is endlessly repeating, but I love this job.
I chose it for a reason, and it wasn’t only because being stuck in a stable all day meant I could avoid conversing with humans.
The mats beneath my rubber boots are filthy too.
The gelding from earlier made one hell of a mess for me, and despite using the pressure washer on the floor after, there’s still evidence.
I’m going to be dreaming about tail gunk tonight.
One minute you’re brushing out a few knots, the next you’re elbow-deep in what can only be described as fermented butt juice.
Eventually, I get the mats clean and the hair rinsed down the drain.
The hose goes back on its hook, and I take the soaking brushes out of the filthy water.
Any soap I squirted into the buckets is long gone now.
I lay them out on the counter to dry overnight and then bang a few dry ones out against the wall.
The water in the buckets looks like oversteeped tea when I dump it down the drain and turn them upside down to try.
For the first time today, the stable is quiet.
I change out of my rubber boots and stretch my arms above me while passing the silent stalls.
The kid who’s always ankle-deep in shit—Brock, I think his name is—has already fed the horses and left.
A couple of them are still out, but when I pass Diesel’s stall, I find him inside.
Chomping on his supper, he hardly pays me any attention as I grab the metal bars of his door and lean against it, watching.
I had forgotten how big he is during my time away.
His kindness never faded from my memory, but his face did.
I’ve felt guilty about that often. It used to bother me at night when I was lying in bed next to my ex-husband, staring at the ceiling.
I should have remembered every face I left behind, but over time, it got easier to forget them. It was easier when I couldn’t see them every time I closed my eyes. Pain was the last thing I wanted to feel when I restarted my life, so I did everything I could to prevent it.
I think how hard I fought to forget only made things worse once I was forced to remember.
Blowing out a breath, I press my forehead to the bars. Diesel’s ears twitch when he picks up on the noise and finally abandons his hay. A few pieces drop from his mouth, as if he forgot to keep chewing. I keep my laugh trapped in my throat.
His heavy hooves whisper across the stall floor as he ambles toward me, not rushing; never rushing. Then, he’s right there, so close I can feel the wetness from his nose against my cheek. He presses his face to the other side of the bars. A gust of air hits my cheek.
The door wobbles on its hinges when he butts his head against the bars with more force, demanding a proper greeting like the stubborn thing he’s always been. I can’t hide my laugh any longer. It comes out softly, and he does it again.
“I missed you too, Diesel. God, you’re needy,” I tell him, curling my fingers under his jaw through the bars.
He leans some weight onto my hand, encouraging me to keep it there.
“You need to give Rowe a kick in the ass because I would have groomed you first today. Before anyone else.”
He pushes out another burst of air across my face, like he’s agreeing with me.
“I’ll sneak you in tomorrow,” I promise.
I’m not sure how I’ll pull it off, but I’ll try. Surely, the asshole cowboy needs to leave the ranch sometime. He can’t be here all the time. The last thing I want to do is start asking the others about him. I have no doubt they’ll run right to him.
Cowboys are worse gossipers than little old ladies in a bingo hall.
“Finish eating, and I’ll see you in the morning,” I say lowly, rounding my hand up his head to stroke his nose. “You’re a good boy, Diesel. I’m sorry I was gone so long.”
I give his nose one last stroke before backing off.
He watches me move, dark eyes making it hard to leave.
For a beat, I consider saying fuck it and spending the night curled up on the hay in his stall.
It’s reckless to fall asleep in a horse’s pen like that, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
Wild animal or not, Diesel’s family to me.
“I’ll get to you tomorrow. Let’s see Rowe try to stop me.”
And with that, I wink at Diesel and leave the stable, sliding the door shut behind me.
There’s a box of shit in my trailer still needing to be unpacked.
Ash dumped it here today after popping in out of the blue. He said this box was the reason, but I know he just wanted to make sure I hadn’t run off again. I could have stopped by the post office to pick it up tomorrow.
The box came from Nova Scotia. It’s marked in my writing, and the postage label is the one I’d stuck on before I boarded my plane.
There were a couple of boxes of things that I couldn’t fit in my suitcases and had mailed from the rental I was living in during Ethan’s and my separation.
I debated leaving them behind. The last bit of my nostalgia inside of me that still refuses to die off wouldn’t let me do that.
Now, I don’t know if I want to open the box or toss it into the lake.
I make up my mind and grab a knife from the block on the counter. A memory hits me when I lower myself to a crouch above the box, the tip of the knife already digging into the shoddy tape job. It’s one I didn’t know I even had but, in this moment, is more fitting than any I thought I did remember.
Some siblings chase each other with worms they find in mud puddles or a piece of food they know the other hates. Ash and I were different. He would put garter snakes into my bed while I was sleeping, and I’d pay him back by chasing him around the house with a knife.
Maybe I should have been put into therapy instead of riding lessons.
Huffing a laugh, I cut open the tape and pull the flaps open. Once I drop the knife, I sit on the floor and pull the piece of bubble wrap free that’s covering the boxed-up memories.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself, staring at which of my shipments arrived first.
The stacks of letters held together by elastics stretched to their limits are on top of an orange envelope that I know is full of old photos.
Leaning back and away from the box, I inwardly chastise myself for being such an idiot.
I should have burned them all a decade ago.
Instead, here they are. I can almost hear the letters cackling, knowing that I’m too chickenshit to read them again.
Well, fuck that.
I rip the elastic off and take the top letter.
The date on it is one I couldn’t ever forget.
It’s the first day I’d heard from Rowe after he was led out of the courtroom and taken from all of us.
A month had passed since then, and despite my best efforts, I hadn’t been able to convince Ash to take me to visit him.
Unfolding the letter, I steel my spine and try to read it like I would anything else.
September 17th
Tilly,
I don’t know if you hate me for what I did and will burn this the moment you see who it came from, or if you’ll do it after you’ve read what I have to say.
Either way, I needed to at least try and see if you’re okay.
There’s no way Ezra has bothered you now, but I can’t sleep worth a shit wondering if he’s recovered enough to be stupid and try to talk to you again. Or to share the videos even now.
You didn’t have to go to the courthouse. I appreciate that you did, though. Can you tell your parents that it meant a lot to me to see them there with you and Ash?
Yeah… alright. That’s all I wanted to say. Tell me the truth about Ezra.
Okay. Bye, hellcat.
Rowe
It took me two weeks to reply to him. I used a pencil to write my thoughts first. Then, I crumpled it up and rewrote it in pen.
I tried red, then blue, before settling on black.
It was completely pathetic how neatly I made myself write because I wanted desperately to impress him.
I was twenty-one and enamoured with the man who had nearly killed someone for trying to ruin my life.
We weren’t exchanging love notes. They were the furthest thing from that. Even as the months went on, they were never outwardly romantic. I was crushing on him terribly, but he didn’t share those feelings. I was never surer of that than when his last letter came.
Our friendship was real, though. At one point, I was fully convinced we were closer than he and Ash ever were.
Despite him being locked up while I tried to pretend I wasn’t falling into depression, we were best friends.
His letters were the only reason I got out of bed most days.
Fuck knows working for his parents wasn’t doing that.
Clearing my throat, I slap the box shut and shove it behind the couch. Once it’s out of sight, I pull a beer from the lukewarm mini-fridge and step outside. The night is a welcome change of scenery as I plop my ass on the grass and crack open the beer.
With the Painted Sky truck parked in front of my trailer, I finish my beer and let the last words my therapist in Nova Scotia ever told me flush my mind.
“You’ll know you’re finished healing when it stops pissing you off that they’re still breathing, Tilly. You’ll get there.”
I reread that letter and still wish Rowe hadn’t written it in the first place. That he wasn’t here, out of prison and acting like what he said to me didn’t shred my na?ve heart into pieces. Time hasn’t softened any memory I have of this place or the best friend I lost in the blink of an eye.
I hate him.
Not for what he did that night or that he told me he didn’t do any of it for me.
But for the way I still want to believe he was lying.