Chapter Seven
If he were insane, his was a very cool and collected insanity.
Twice a week at Resilience Ranch, guys from Seven Bridges Landscaping Service come to mow, weed, repair fences, and ensure that our grounds are safe for the horses and the property is up to snuff.
Late Thursday morning is already a scorcher.
One of the landscapers (who looks like he’s barely out of his teens) wanders up to the split-rail fence, a pair of battered work gloves tucked into his back pocket.
He’s got golden retriever energy, with an unkempt mop of sun-kissed, light brown waves.
His eyes are a shockingly bright green, like a Granny Smith apple.
“You’re Jane, right?”
I’ve been scrubbing out the water trough. Grit grinds under my nails. “Yep.”
“Thought I’d introduce myself. I’m River.”
“Nice to meet you, River. I like your name.”
“River is actually my last name—I played a lot of sports, and my coaches called me River cuz there was always more than one John . . .” He offers me a modest grin, and two lopsided dimples pop onto his cheeks.
“I get it,” I say. “‘Jane’ and ‘John’ are sorta equivalent, right? Like, whose idea was it, using our names before ‘Doe’? I’m offended every time I hear that phrase.”
“We should start a movement,” River states. He hooks one boot over the bottom rail, bracing a knee so his calf flexes under the faded denim. “And change the world.”
I laugh. “Well, I would, but I’m not the world-changing type.”
“That’s not what I heard. You’re pretty famous around here.”
I stand, using my wet hands to wipe dirt and grime from my damp knees. “Am I? Already?”
“Definitely. Axel Rose says you single-handedly rescued Miss Adele and have a special way with nervous horses. Also, you talked her into hiring you on the spot.”
“She’s exaggerating.”
River points at the shirt I have on; it’s got Matisse’s cat in the window painting on it. “You like art?”
“Yeah,” I say. “In another life, I was a prolific painter. But in this one, I just dabble.”
“Oh yeah? I’m an art major at Sugar Pine U. I’ll be a senior this fall.”
“So this landscaping gig is just a day job?”
“Sort of. We’ll see.” He smiles again. “What about you, Jane? Any big plans to climb the horse training circuit?”
Heat gathers behind my cheeks. River’s cute, and he seems like a nice kid. But I bet where he comes from, everyone goes to college. And here I am, without ambition.
“Truth is,” I say, “I’m not sure if ‘horse training’ is even what you’d call it. More like—emotional support work. And stall-mucking.”
“Sounds like a metaphor,” River says. “For life, you know?”
“Right,” I laugh. “So, tell me about Sugar Pine University’s art scene.”
He shrugs. “It’s mostly ceramics, tattoo art, and then the stuff professors care about, like weird installations about gender or the environment. There’s a printmaking studio in the old cannery building. And a mural club that’s always in trouble for spray-painting the town water tower.”
“Sounds very cool,” I say.
“You should come by campus sometime,” River says.
“There’s an open studio night every first Friday.
Or better—” he checks over his shoulder, lowering his voice “—you could meet my friend Mal. They run the outdoor art co-op. And—don’t laugh—they’re basically obsessed with horses.
They make these clay horses that look nothing like horses, but everyone pretends otherwise. ”
“They sound delightful,” I say, wondering if River thinks we’re the same age. Does he realize I’m not a college kid?
His eyes crinkle up. “Jane, do you get to leave the ranch? Or is it like a horsey convent?”
“If I couldn’t leave, that would be more like a horsey cult. Either way, I come and go as I please.”
“Great, because if you like hiking—” he cuts himself off. “Actually, wait. How do you feel about backpacking?”
“Enthusiastic in theory. I’ve always wanted to try it.” That’s the truth. Reading Escape from the Springs has given me a romantic notion of backpacking. However, while I can ride all day, the thought of lugging a forty-pound pack up a switchback makes my knees wobbly.
“We have a club,” River says. “Well, not officially a club, but a group. And it’s not just for students. You should give it a try.”
“Thanks, River. I might just take you up on that.”
He grins at me again, flashing those dimples. “Great.” River looks past my shoulder, suddenly tensing. “I should probably get back to work. Nice talking to you.”
“Same,” I say.
As River walks off, I look behind me to see what caused that shift to happen.
And there’s Chet, all dark and brooding, blatantly watching.
He waves—if you can call it that. A single raise of his hand, arm bending at the elbow, like he’s a pedestrian begrudgingly acknowledging a car that let him cross an intersection.
What else can I do? I smile and enthusiastically wave back.