Chapter 7 Mortem Interval
MORTEM INTERVAL
LILA
Ishould be appreciating the view, soaking in the rare, tranquil moment before I inevitably get saddled onto an animal several times my size with a brain the size of a walnut.
Instead, I’m picturing Theo’s reaction to all this—his potential disdain for hay, horses, and any activity that involves denim. It’s a shame that this is our quality time for girls' day. I think I would enjoy seeing him suffer in cowboy boots.
In addition to that, I’m watching Emily actively contemplate death.
Not in the usual our-family-is-cursed kind of way.
No—more the I drank too much wine and am struggling to remain conscious kind of way.
She’s perched on a wooden fence post, oversized sunglasses crooked on her nose, hood up, arms locked around herself to stave off the cold. Her skin’s pale, carrying that damp post-wine regret sheen I know too well. Classic hangover misery. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve looked worse.
I climb up onto the fence beside her, boots sliding a little on the lower rail before I settle next to her. “How’s your hand?” I ask, nudging her knee with mine.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence at first. Then, her breath clouds the air as she lets out a low, raspy groan, “Lila, if I die today, tell them to bury me somewhere scenic.”
The corners of my mouth twitch, but I manage to hold it in. “Noted. Preferably near a vineyard?”
“God, no,” she groans like the thought of wine at all might make her barf.
I let the moment stretch between us, let the soft sounds of rustling trees and distant birds fill the silence. Emily grimaces as she flexes her bandaged fingers, like she’s remembering exactly how dinner ended.
Then, voice quiet, she says, “I’m sorry about last night.”
I keep my eyes on the horizon. “For what?”
She lets out a dry laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe for announcing your deep-seated BDSM fantasies to the entire table? Or for getting blackout drunk and bleeding all over the place? Your pick.”
I shrug, keeping my tone light, casual. “Please. Like Baryn wasn’t already going to find some new way to make my life hell. And as for the blood—you really need to work on that, Mayfair. If I had a nickel for every time you fainted at the sight of an open wound, I could probably buy my own horse.”
She grimaces. “Don’t remind me. I still have nightmares about that anatomy lecture.”
Her expression pinches.
“You hit the ground like a Victorian woman fainting at the sight of an exposed ankle.”
Emily groans. “This is why I don’t apologize to you.”
I bump my knee against hers again. “I’m serious. Don’t worry about it.”
Emily looks at me then, searching. She looks like she wants to press—wants to ask if I really mean it—but instead, she just nods.
The horses are already saddled by the time we reach the stables. Emily’s usual mare—a sleek, chestnut beauty named Lady Marmalade—flicks her tail at us in greeting, completely unbothered by Emily’s near-death state.
I, on the other hand, am staring down my assigned horse—Al Capony—so as to threaten manners into him via telepathy.
He’s large. Too large. His nostrils flare, sizing me up, probably sensing my complete lack of faith in his ability to not send me plummeting to my death.
“You’re going to be fine,” Emily insists.
“If by ‘fine,’ you mean ‘potentially thrown from a moving animal and trampled to death in the dirt,’ then sure.”
Emily snorts, the closest thing to life she’s shown all morning, then immediately groans and presses her fingers to her temples. “Don’t make me laugh. My brain is trying to detach from my skull.”
“We absolutely do not have to do this,” I assure her. “You look like maybe you shouldn’t, actually.”
“Nice try,” she says, and swings herself up and onto Lady Marmalade like she wasn’t just knocking on death’s door less than three seconds ago.
I eye Al Capony.
He eyes me back.
We have an understanding, I think; I don’t trust him, he doesn’t trust me. And yet, somehow I’m supposed to climb onto his back and place my life in his questionable hooved hands.
Emily watches me from atop Lady Marmalade with the patience you reserve for small children still struggling with basic motor functions. “Just put your foot in the stirrup and swing your leg over,” she says.
“Oh, just like that?” I deadpan. “I had no idea. Thank god you’re here to explain.”
I grab the saddle, plant my foot in the stirrup, and pull myself up.
Almost immediately, I regret everything. Because my leg? Does not clear the horse’s back.
Instead, it collides awkwardly, and for one terrifying moment, I’m suspended mid-air, neither on the horse nor off it.
“Uh—”
And then I start sliding backwards.
“Oh my god—”
I scramble, trying to hoist myself up, but my balance is gone. Evaporated. Nonexistent. My boot slips from the stirrup, my arms flail, and gravity makes its final ruling.
I land hard on my ass in the cold dirt.
Emily wheezes. Lady Marmalade looks mildly entertained. Al Capony looks down at me unblinking. Judging.
She hops down like it’s nothing, still trying to contain her laughter. She offers me her hand. “Come on, let's try that again before someone sees and starts charging for tickets.”
I sigh, accept my fate, and prepare for round two.
There’s the sound of boots scuffing on the stable floor, followed by a low whistle and a muttered, “Well, that didn’t sound graceful.”
Gerry steps out from one of the stalls, brushing hay off his sleeves, a curry comb still in his hand. His expression lands somewhere between amused and concerned.
Emily is still trying to smother her laugh. “She’s fine,” she says.
“She’s bruised,” I correct, dusting dirt off my jeans. “And possibly concussed.”
“Mm-hm,” Gerry hums, walking toward me. The horses track him like he’s magnetic. “Well, I’m sure the ground is grateful for the company.”
He extends a hand before I can answer, palm rough and warm, and hauls me up with surprising ease for a man who looks like he should be off somewhere auditioning to play Santa in a department store.
I continue to wipe at the dirt on my jeans, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.
Gerry just grins, giving my shoulder a grandfatherly pat.
“There we go,” he says, giving me a once-over. “Still in one piece. Mostly.”
Emily snickers. Lady Marmalade tosses her head, clearly in agreement. Al Capony just glares at me like I’ve personally offended his ancestors.
Gerry pats the gelding’s shoulder and studies me with obvious patience. “You can’t just jump on him, Lila. He’s got opinions. He thinks he’s smarter than you.”
“He’s not wrong in this instance,” Emily snickers.
Gerry ignores her. “The thing is,” he continues, “horses don’t think the way we do. They don’t care about ego or logic. They care about energy. If you’re nervous, they’re nervous. If you’re angry, they’ll brace for a fight. But if you’re steady, they’ll give you their trust.”
He pauses, stroking Al Capony’s neck. “You can’t bluff a horse, sweetheart. They see right through it. That’s why they’re so damn humbling.”
Emily groans playfully. “Here we go. The Gospel According to Gerry.”
He shoots her a fond look. “You hush. I’m teaching.
” He keeps talking, more to himself than anyone else.
“Your grandmother keeps me around because I know them better than most. I figure it’s just cheaper than therapy.
” He chuckles softly, still running his hand along the horse’s mane.
“I spent most of my life at the post office, until I had to retire to take care of my wife when she got sick. Cancer took her a few years back. After that, I needed something to occupy my time. Leatherwork seemed like a fun option, which naturally led to saddlery. And here we are.”
He says it so simply, like it’s just another fact of life, but the word cancer hits a raw place in me.
It always does. My throat goes tight before I can stop it, that old, automatic ache that comes with remembering hospitals and white walls and the smell of antiseptic that never really leaves the inside of your nostrils.
I manage a small nod, the kind people give when there’s nothing useful to say. My hand finds the small urn at my throat, a habit more than a thought. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he lets me have the silence for a beat longer.
“I thought retirement would mean peace and quiet, but it turns out that’s overrated.
These guys keep me busy. They’re predictable, honest. Can’t say that about many people.
” He glances up at me, a half-smile tugging at his mouth, and winks.
“Horses don’t care what you’ve done or who you think you are.
Treat them well, and they’ll return the favor.
If only people were that straightforward.
” He extends his hand, waiting patiently for me to take it.
“Now, step up again. We’ll do it properly this time. ”
“I’m not sure anything I am capable of will qualify for ‘properly,’” I say, eyeing the saddle.
“You’ll be fine. Left foot in the stirrup. Hold here.” He pats the reins, then steadies the saddle as I plant my foot. “Good. Now swing your leg over like you mean it.”
This time, I do. And somehow, miraculously, I end up seated on Al Capony instead of the ground.
“There you go,” Gerry says proudly. “Told you it’s all about balance and intention. Horses are a lot like us. You just have to convince them you’re worth listening to.”
Emily snorts. “Or bribe them with carrots.”
Gerry chuckles, giving Lady Marmalade’s neck a final pat. “That too.” Then he looks up at me. “You two enjoy your ride. Take it slow until you find your rhythm, and if you start to slip again, just roll with it. Easier landing that way.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say.
He just winks. “Confidence isn’t the same as competence. But it’s a start.”
And with that, he heads back into the stables, humming to the horses as Emily and I ride out into the morning.