Chapter 17
TILLY
Despite everything that’s happened between us, Rowe’s still the easiest person for me to talk to.
You’d think it would be the opposite because of his gruff exterior and hatred of anything besides horses, but he’s always been a good listener. Once you get past his scowling and stubbornness, he can blab your ear off about nearly anything.
Maybe that’s part of the reason why I crushed on him so badly back then.
He was the best secret keeper and never once judged me for anything I did or contemplated doing.
Ash should have been my first call when I needed help, but the older I got, the more I started depending on his best friend.
I’d never tell him that, though. My brother is even quicker to get jealous than I am, and that shouldn’t be humanly possible.
The three-hour journey to Wickett Ranch wasn’t nearly as awkward as I expected.
My mouth wouldn’t stop moving the entire time, even when I accidently got too close to mentioning the letters.
It got awkward for a few minutes after that, and then I’d say something that I knew would annoy him.
Everything went back to normal after that.
The early evening sun is hidden behind thick, long clouds, washing everything out. It’s not like this place holds a candle to Painted Sky to begin with. Sure, it looks big, but everything’s cramped near the house we’re parked in front of.
Staring out past the paint-chipped garden shed, I squint one eye to try and make out the shape of whatever structure is out in the pasture. It’s sloped to the right, and I’m pretty sure the door is hanging off its hinges.
“We’re not staying here tonight, right?” I ask, turning to watch Rowe pop the tailgate open.
“No.”
He’s pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, exposing new tattoos.
I join him and try to count the black tree branches that shoot up his inner forearm like tiny little veins, leading up to a thicker trunk at his elbow.
They’re stolen from my view when he pulls a tub down the truck bed, leaving my count at seven.
“What’s all that?”
“The rest of your shit.”
My brow twitches. “My shit?”
“You only brought brushes. I grabbed the rest of what was in the stall.”
“Your dad didn’t mention needing to do full service on these horses,” I say, feeling the need to clarify.
Rowe’s laugh is all bark. “Of course he didn’t. You wouldn’t have agreed if he had.”
“Well, do they not have supplies here at all? Surely, we didn’t need to bring everything,” I bite out.
His eyes drift across the ranch, as if that’s answer enough. I flick my braid over my shoulder. It hits my back before I take one end of the tub and nod for him to grab the other.
“Right. Let’s take it with us, then.”
We haul the bin up the driveway to the house. My shoulder aches from the weight of it, but I don’t have the chance to complain before Rowe’s lifting it higher on his end. I’m hardly carrying any of its weight now.
I keep my mouth shut about it.
By the time we make it up to the house, there’s a man standing behind the screen door. It’s creepy as hell the way he’s lurking instead of outright standing on the rickety porch.
“Rowe Carrigan. It’s about damn time you got here,” he says, finally pushing the door open.
The tub is lowered to the ground quicker than I was expecting. It drops hard, the contents rattling. Rowe’s back stiffens, his shirt pulling taut across his shoulders. I stare boldly, unable to help myself from taking a peek at the muscles flexing.
“Can’t go any faster than the speed limit lets me, Walt” is all Rowe says.
The man chuckles deeply, the sound cruel. “Is that right? Criminals only care about the law when it benefits them, then?”
My eyes narrow on the man. Even from a few yards away, I can see the crusty-ass mustache above his lip and the bulge beneath the bottom one from where I’d bet he’s got spit tucked. The nicotine that goes flying through the air a beat later makes me cringe, confirming my suspicions.
“You wanted to talk about the stud, so let’s talk,” Rowe says, voice low.
I cross my arms over my chest and keep the man in my sights. My movements seem to snag his attention. His ugly brown eyes flick toward me, snagging on my crossed arms for a beat before he forces them away to the man a few paces ahead of me.
“This is the groomer?”
“I am,” I answer for Rowe.
He doesn’t look back at me. “She is.”
“Tilly, I think is what Jed said your name was. That it?” he asks me this time.
“The one and only. Where are the horses?”
Walt flings a hand to the left of the house. “The stable’s that way. Only got a few horses. You don’t need whatever’s in that bin.”
This isn’t a horse ranch, then. From the smell, I’d have assumed cattle if I’d seen anything thus far that looked remotely close to a cow. Maybe they’re kept further out.
“I’ll decide that when I get there. Thanks. It’ll take me a few hours to finish,” I declare, already lowering my arm to grab the bin. “And I’ll need Rowe to help me haul this over there.”
He turns then, beckoned at the sound of his name. The frustration burning in his grey eyes brings out something in me that I’d prefer not to feel around him. He doesn’t need my protection, and I guarantee he’d get all bothered if I tried to offer it.
Still, I don’t like when he looks like that. Especially not when the cause is some creepy old cowboy with a musty-ass mustache. Not everyone can pull one off, and he certainly cannot.
Luckily, Rowe blinks away all hints of emotion from his gaze and grabs his side of the bin. I feel myself relax a little and wait for him to lead the way, despite neither of us having a real idea of where to go.
“I’m not done talking about my horse, Rowe,” Walt grumbles when we start walking away from the house.
I flash him a poisoned smile over my shoulder and pat Rowe’s back a couple of times. “Don’t worry, I’ll return him to you shortly.”
Rowe doesn’t bother adding anything to my statement. I watch the back of his head as he walks, lifting the bin even higher than he was the first time. It’s so light in my hands now that I could drop it and it wouldn’t fall.
I twist my mouth, keeping quiet. Just focus on his bicep and absolutely do not thank him for something he might not be aware he’s doing. He hates me enough that he wouldn’t really consider helping me out. Reading into something so small like this is idiotic.
It feels like we walk forever before finally approaching a small stable.
“He keeps his horses in here?” I blurt, disgust creeping in.
“Let’s see.”
Rowe sets the bin down outside the door and gives the rusted handle a tug.
It creaks loudly, almost making me jump.
He pulls the door open fully, letting the daylight flood into the dark space.
I almost turn around and run right back to Walt when I see the state of the inside, my feet carrying me right past Rowe.
My nose turns up at the smell. I swallow a gag and search the closest wall for a light switch. I almost wish I didn’t find one. I’m vibrating with rage the second I flick it up and bright lights fill the space. My lungs constrict, making each breath feel like inhaling razor blades.
The three horses inside are kept far away from one another. With ten stalls total, there are three between each horse and an empty one at the end. I don’t know which one to look at first, so I alternate between all three, my pulse loud in my ears.
“Fuck.”
I ignore the rough curse and move further inside, stumbling to a stop in front of a chestnut-brown gelding with a patchy, dull coat and ribs starting to show beneath skin that should be sleek and shiny.
His black mane is a matted mess of knots, and there’s a cut above his eye that’s partially scabbed over.
He scuffs his hooves anxiously on the ground, favouring his front right over the left.
The water bucket in the stall is bone-dry, and the floor is—
I turn and gag, lifting my wrist to cover my nose. The acrid smell is stuck to my skin already as I breathe through my mouth. Boots crunch on the filthy aisle floor, coming my way. I look back at the horse, my stomach too twisted up to ignore him.
There’s scabbed-over rain rot along his back and gunk clinging to the corner of his eye like dried glue. I reach for the gate, keeping my palm against the bars and my fingers from getting too close to him. His ears flick once, registering me being so close, but don’t fully rise.
“He’s got thrush,” I murmur tightly.
My voice shakes, and I hate it. I tighten my jaw and look at the stable ceiling, refusing to cry. This isn’t the right time. There are two other horses here that need help too. They’ve all been betrayed in the worst way. I know that without taking a single look at the two further inside.
I hear Rowe’s boots shuffle closer on the concrete before the soft click of his phone unlocking. A beat later, he’s handing it to me, the camera open.
“Take pictures,” he says, voice low.
Wordlessly, I take photo after photo. The curled hooves, ruined coat, sore eyes, I capture all of it. Even the water bucket and mess on the floor don’t get forgotten.
“Look at me.”
I tighten my hold on the camera and bring my eyes to his. The understanding waiting for me has my grip relaxing. He doesn’t say anything right away. We stand in silence for a while, just staring at one another as if neither of us wants to be the first to speak.
For a second, I wonder if he’s going to just leave. It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. It’s happened before. Instead, his voice lands softly. It’s the last thing I was expecting.
“He looks like Diesel did when you found him.”
The memory slams into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. I was younger, stupider, but just as furious when I stumbled upon him in a similar stable to this. And Rowe was here beside me the way he is now, a silent partner doing his best to keep his rage buried.
“I remember.”
“You cried for hours. Wouldn’t stop no matter what I did or said to try and help.”
My laugh is sudden, sharp. “You made fun of me for it.”
“Only because I didn’t know what else to do. I was a stupid fifteen-year-old.”
I look harder at him now. Deeper. His carefully blank expression hides everything that I’m feeling outright.
Where I can’t help but scowl and mouth off, he looks away and chomps his tongue instead.
He’s a professional at hiding his feelings, and right now, I know he’s considering which of us is better off making the decision on what we need to do to get these horses out of here.
“You’re not going to be able to walk away from this.” He tips his chin toward the gelding’s stall. “You’ve never been good at pretending you don’t give a shit, even when you think you’ve pulled it off.”
The silence stretches itself thin. I can’t look back at the horse, not yet. Not until I’ve come up with a way to save it.
“If you want to report Walt, I’ll back you,” Rowe adds.
Just like that. No hesitation. No warning.
My throat is sticky when I say, “That won’t be enough.”
“I’ll keep the pictures for when we need them, then.”
“What?”
His smile is more beautiful now than it was back then. I almost forget how to think when he speaks again, this time sounding like his teenage self.
“I’m at your service, hellcat. Just tell me what you want to do.”