Chapter 9
THIS IS TRUST
JOEY
HEART By Jakub Zytecki
Townshend stands at the far end, his muscled frame rigid as he tracks my movement. Yesterday’s progress might as well have happened in another lifetime as the familiar wariness burns in his dark eyes like I’m a stranger again.
“Morning, handsome.” I keep my voice steady and low. “Ready to try again?”
His ears swivel toward me before pinning flat against his skull. The mixed signals never surprise me anymore, part curiosity, part defiance. Classic Townshend.
I unlatch the paddock gate and step cautiously inside. He snorts and wheels away, hooves drumming against the earth as he puts maximum distance between us. The same dance we’ve performed for weeks: approach, retreat, circle back to square one. It’s part of the process.
I clip the lead rope to his halter, and his head shoots up like I’ve struck him. The simple motion of adjusting the rope near his face sends him scrambling backward, whites of his eyes flashing.
“Easy.” I keep my movements slow and deliberate to try and put him at ease. I’m not a threat. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
The walk to the round pen becomes a negotiation. Every time the rope brushes his neck or I shift my grip, his head jerks away. By the time I unlatch the round pen gate, tension radiates from every line of his body.
The moment I release the lead, he invades my space.
His shoulder bumps mine as he pushes past, claiming the center of the pen like it belongs to him.
When I step forward to establish my position, he doesn’t yield.
Instead, he turns his body toward me, crowding closer until his chest nearly touches my shoulder.
“Back up.” I place my palm against his chest, applying gentle pressure.
He leans into the contact.
I increase the pressure slightly, but my timing is off and the rhythm of the exercise escapes me.
Townshend explodes backward, striking out with his front hooves before wheeling away to the far side of the pen.
His sides heave as he presses against the rails, as far from me as the space allows.
Thankfully his foot didn’t make contact, although I suspect he wasn’t trying to hurt me. More of a warning.
“Dammit.” I exhale hard, refocusing on the twelve hundred pounds of agitated horse across from me. I lost focus when I should have been steady and present. I’ve had a lot on my mind.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and Townshend’s agitation spikes immediately. His pace increases, wild energy feeding off my distraction.
I step back and raise my hands, releasing the pressure. Townshend slows slightly but continues his anxious circling. Working with an unpredictable horse while taking a phone call ranks somewhere between stupid and suicidal on the safety scale.
I slip out of the round pen and latch the gate behind me, leaving Townshend to work through his nervous energy alone.
Leaning against the pasture railing, I pull the phone from my pocket.
Maggie’s face fills the screen, her backdrop a tranquil scene of trees and mountains that are far from the rolling hills of home.
“Hey Maggs.” I wave while keeping one eye on Townshend’s continued pacing.
“Just got into Salt Lake.” She turns the camera to capture snow-capped mountains rising behind her.
“How’s it going?”
“Well.” She sighs with theatrical flair. “My only friend on the crew so far is Dusty, our ample-sized roadie, and I’m not even sure he likes me.”
I laugh. “Lots of people like you. How could they not?”
“Yeah.” Her smile falters at the edges. “I’m fine.”
The forced optimism in her voice catches my attention. “Come on, spill. What’s really bothering you?”
“I wanted to do the induction film, not be on some over-glorified road trip.” The whine creeps into her voice, familiar and endearing.
“This again?”
“Yes, this again. I’m still grieving my artistic ambition.” She shifts the camera to showcase her vintage band tee and dark shorts, scuffed high-tops visible at the bottom of the frame. “This is my mourning outfit.”
I roll my eyes.
“Remember when Johnny Finch dumped me for slimy Taylor Johnson?”
Her face brightens with reluctant amusement. “You mean when he inexplicably chose to eat lunch with her instead? Yeah.”
I nod, making an exaggerated disgusted face about my middle school crush. “I was wallowing in self-pity and you cranked up a pop song and made me dance it out.”
She groans dramatically, knowing exactly where I’m going with this.
“I think you need to dance it out.”
“No.”
“Maggs.” I use my stern voice, the one I save for both horses and stubborn sisters.
“I’m living in the rockstar version of summer camp.” She makes a face like she’s tasted something sour. “With bunk beds. I am not dancing it out. Plus, I’m fine. It can only get better from here.”
The optimism wavers in her voice.
“Are you talking to yourself?” A male voice cuts through the background noise as a head pops into view. Messy dark hair frames his angular features, and a sucker stick hangs out from his full lips with casual arrogance.
“That’s my twin sister, genius.” Maggie’s tone could freeze water.
I wave cheerfully through the screen, curious about this mysterious handsome man who’s clearly gotten under my sister’s skin.
“Oh my God, there are two of you?” He looks back and forth between Maggie and me.
Maggie’s hand appears, shoving his face out of frame with more force than necessary.
I hear him say muffled but audible. “God help us all.”
I snicker. Clearly this guy has my sister in a tizzy.
“What?” Maggie asks, turning her attention back to me.
“He’s friendly.” I can’t hide my amusement.
“More like annoying,” she says, making sure her voice carries.
“I can hear you, you know,” he calls back to her. “You’re going to have my babies someday.”
Oh my.
“He doesn’t seem to hate you… much.” I giggle.
She sighs, a mixture of amusement and exasperation crossing her features. “I gotta go.”
The call ends. I never got a chance to tell Maggie how things are going here. Not that she asked. If she had, would I have told her about the mysterious masked singer I kissed that has me so distracted?
I pocket the phone and step back into the round pen with Townshend. His head remains high, ears still tracking my movements with suspicious attention.
“You sense it too, don’t you? When my mind’s somewhere else.”
I catch the subtle shift in his body language. One ear briefly flicks forward before pinning back again. Progress wrapped in setbacks.
The pattern strikes uncomfortably familiar.
I work with him for another twenty minutes, managing to coax him into a few moments of calm connection before he retreats again. Two steps forward, three steps back. By the time I lead him back to the paddock, frustration is bubbling in my chest.
“You know what, Townshend?” I plant my hands on my hips as he moves immediately to the far corner, putting maximum distance between us. “You’re acting like a toddler who refuses to eat his vegetables. I’m trying to help you here, but you’re determined to be difficult.”
He flicks one ear in my direction before deliberately turning his rump toward me.
“Oh, now you’re giving me the cold shoulder? Real mature.” I shake my head, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips despite the exasperation. “Tomorrow we’re going to work on your attitude, mister. And keep earning your name by throwing a tantrum and knocking over your water bucket.”
I make my way to where Joplin, our oldest mare, waits in cross-ties.
At twenty-two, she’s earned her retirement, but she still needs exercise to keep her joints mobile.
She’s a lifer here, just like me. Her gentle brown eyes track my approach with the kind of trusting warmth Townshend may never offer.
“Ready for a ride, beautiful girl?”
She nickers softly, leaning into my touch as I run my hand along her neck. No tension, no wariness. Pure acceptance and partnership built over years of mutual respect.
I get her saddled and within minutes we’re moving across the back pasture at an easy walk, her gait smooth and responsive beneath me. This is how it’s supposed to work, the seamless communication between horse and rider, the unspoken understanding making them move as one unit.
“This is what Townshend doesn’t understand yet.” I murmur to Joplin, settling deeper into the saddle as she picks up a gentle trot. “It’s better together.”
From his paddock, Townshend’s head snaps up at the sound of my voice. He tracks our movements with laser focus, ears pricked forward despite his best efforts to appear disinterested. When I glance directly at him, he immediately drops his head and begins grazing with exaggerated nonchalance.
Amateur.
“See how Joplin responds to the slightest touch?” I demonstrate with a gentle leg cue, and she smoothly transitions to a collected canter. “No fighting, no dramatics. She trusts me, so this is easy for both of us.”
Townshend’s head lifts again, watching our fluid partnership with what can only be described as interest. The second my eyes meet his, he spins around and presents his rear end to the fence.
“Oh, you’re going to pretend you’re not watching now?” I laugh, guiding Joplin through a figure-eight pattern directly in front of his paddock. “Joplin, show our stubborn friend how a lady accepts guidance.”
When I ask Joplin for a smooth halt and she stops perfectly square, Townshend finally turns around completely. His ears strain forward, neck stretched as far as the fence allows, drinking in every detail of our partnership.
The moment I look at him directly and smile, he snorts dismissively and trots to the far corner of his paddock, tail swishing with attitude.
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know.” I call to his retreating form. “Tomorrow we’re going to work on that pride of yours.”
Joplin responds to the slightest shift of my weight, the smallest touch of the reins. We move in perfect harmony across the familiar terrain, around the cluster of oak trees providing summer shade, and along the fence line where sunflowers twist through the weathered wood.
This is freedom. This is trust. This is what I’ve been trying to show Townshend for weeks.
As we cool down near the barn, Dad’s motorcycle rumbles up the far end of the driveway—he always cuts the engine before the barn, a habit Mom drilled into him years ago. I dismount and begin loosening Joplin’s girth as he parks and removes his helmet.
“Good ride?” He approaches.
“Perfect, as always.” I pat Joplin’s neck affectionately. “This girl never gives me any trouble.”
“Unlike your new boyfriend over there.” Dad nods toward Townshend, who’s resumed his pacing along the far fence of his paddock.
“He’s just playing hard to get but I respect the commitment,” I say.
“Romantic,” Dad teases, as he scratches Joplin behind the ears, earning a contented sigh from her.
“How’s the shop?” It’s been ages since I’ve stepped foot in there.
I used to spend my weekends behind the counter with my dad, digging through dusty crates of vinyl, hunting for some hidden track I hadn’t worn out yet.
That’s where my obsession with classic rock started—something Dad encouraged with a grin and a story always at the ready.
He could talk for hours about his favorite artists trashing hotel rooms, splintering guitars onstage, and chasing the kind of reckless glory that burned fast and bright before anyone could tell them to stop.
“I swear these kids I’ve got working part time are going to be the death of me.”
“What now?”
“Lincoln basically built a skate park in the parking lot. Bea, sweet kid, knows her music, but she’s got this whole emo thing going that apparently requires scaring away every customer over forty.
Today she told a customer that his taste in music was ‘contributing to the patriarchal oppression of American culture.’”
“Oh no.” I cover my mouth, trying not to laugh.
His grin turns rueful. “I told her to save the sociology lectures for school.”
“Your mother home?” he changes the subject.
“She had to go downtown. Something about the freelance work she was doing for The Times,” I say.
“How does frozen pizza for dinner sound?” Dad rests his arm around my shoulder, and we walk toward the house together as the afternoon light slants golden across the pastures. Joplin grazes contentedly while Townshend continues his restless patrol of the fence line.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket. When I pull it out, there’s a notification from the social media account I’ve been following obsessively for days. Silent Revenant posted tomorrow night’s show at a venue called Eclipse.
My pulse quickens as I screenshot the information, filing it away for later.
The smart thing would be to accept that whatever happened at The Hollow was a moment of temporary madness better left in the past. But there’s a restless edge to me now, newly awake and unwilling to settle, and it wants to go after that kiss I can’t seem to forget.
“I’m going out tomorrow night,” I say, before I can take it back. “Meeting up with some friends.”
“Have fun and be safe,” he says, and the easy permission settles in my stomach like a stone.
If it were Maggie, he’d already be firing off questions—who are you going with, where exactly, what time will you be home? Not that she’d answer him without a fight.
But with me, he doesn’t even try.
He trusts me. Or maybe he just assumes I won’t do anything reckless enough to warrant the interrogation. I should take the win, accept the freedom without complaint—but instead it makes me feel invisible, like I’m so predictable he doesn’t think there’s anything worth worrying about.
Tomorrow night, I’ll disappear into the crowd again, just another shadow beneath the lights, watching a masked stranger bleed himself into a microphone.
And maybe this time, instead of letting the mystery keep me safe, I’ll be brave enough to reach for the man behind it.