Chapter Eight
“Do you think me handsome?” …the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware. “No, Sir.”
Later, at sunset, I’m grooming Miss Adele in her stall. Chet comes ambling in.
Miss Adele licks her metal feeder, something I’ve noticed she does when she’s bored. I dangle a carrot over her nose. Without breaking her rhythm, she nudges it from my hand and just about inhales the thing.
“Silly girl,” I say, patting her side. “You should take your time and enjoy the treat.”
Chet stands just inside the door, hands docked on his hips. “How’s she doing?”
“Restless,” I answer, brushing Miss Adele’s mane. “I don’t know what her past owners did to her, but it’s like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thinking her new digs are too good to be true.”
Leaning against the stall, he watches the filly flick her tail. “How’d you learn to read horses so well?”
“Not sure,” I answer. “It’s sorta like I was born into a bilingual family, but our other language is equestrian. Horses talk with their ears, their eyes, even their breath. I suppose most people don’t notice, but for me, communicating with horses is just second nature.”
“That’s how I felt developing ShopSpot.” Chet stretches his neck, like he’s remembering the toll of sitting in front of a screen all day. “Writing code and programming and designing the thing—it all came so naturally.”
“Do you ever think about going back?”
“To ShopSpot?” Something elusive glides over his face, erasing any hints of resentment or regret. “Nope. That ship has sailed.”
“Okay. But couldn’t you—”
“I signed away any future rights to ShopSpot.” Chet’s voice is as hard as cement. “And I agreed to a noncompete clause.”
“Seriously?” I look him up and down, almost like I’m checking that he’s stable. “Why would you do that?”
Chet grimaces. “That’s really none of your business, Jane.”
“Whoa.” I hold up both hands in surrender. “Apologies if I overstepped. But you just compared how you felt about ShopSpot to how I feel about horses. And there’s no way I could ever give up working with horses.”
Half a smile appears on Chet’s face. So does a single dimple. Has that always been there, or am I just noticing it now? “No, I apologize,” he says. “When it comes to work, I can be . . . prickly.”
“Prickly, huh?” I laugh to myself. Does he honestly believe that his being “prickly” is isolated to work-related matters? “Have you considered creating something new?”
Sighing, he looks off into the distance.
“Sometimes I entertain this idea—a platform like Facebook or Instagram, but for small business owners. They’d have a ‘storefront’ page, with photos and descriptions of their products, and the site would aggregate all their social media posts, reviews, and promotions onto one easy-to-find place.
Kind like a ‘shop local’ movement, but online. ”
“Would they sell directly from this platform?”
Chet’s mouth quirks as he looks back at me. “That would make sense, right? Problem is, that would be a violation of my noncompete clause with ShopSpot.”
“Huh.” Miss Adele fidgets, and I scratch her nose, which she loves. “Seems unfair. I mean, didn’t you create ShopSpot a lifetime ago?”
“A lifetime ago?” Chet sounds incredulous. “Just how old do you think I am?”
“Forty-two?”
Chet’s jaw juts out. “I’m thirty-five.”
“I know,” I say, laughing. “Just trying to get a rise out of you. Next you’ll ask if I find you handsome.”
Jeezle-Pete. Why did I just say that? Bad, bad choice—especially given the shower stall episode, not to mention its fallout.
But Chet betrays no emotion. No anger at my ribbing.
If anything, he seems to take up more space.
His shoulders expand; his spine straightens.
“Well, since you brought it up—do you find me handsome?”
“No,” I lie. Problem is, I’m a terrible liar.
“Ouch,” Chet says, but he sounds disbelieving.
I shift my weight. “Hey, don’t be blue. I bet most gals find you hot as a two-dollar pistol. I’m an outlier.”
Chet narrows his eyes, perhaps confused by my words. Then he shakes his head and grins. “That you are, Kentucky Jane, though not for the reasons you might think.” He crooks his rugged jaw. “How about we go for a ride? Me on Copper Cash, you on Miss Adele?”
Intriguing offer. I gaze at Miss Adele. She’s looking sort of bug-eyed, hoping another snack might be hidden in my pockets. My heart twitches with doubt. “You sure you’re up for it? At your advanced age?”
Chet raises a single eyebrow. “I’m not using a walker just yet. I can handle myself fine.”
Reaching for his challenge, I roll up my sleeves, ready to prove something. “Of course. But I tell you what—Miss Adele’s barely had a saddle on her. We’ll be taking it slow.”
“As you wish.” Chet’s voice carries the glint of a double-dare. He heads off toward the tack room. Copper Cash stands at the hitch rail. Chet walks up and clips the reins to his bit, swinging an arm over the horse’s neck.
I grab Miss Adele, who’s watching with bright, hopeful eyes. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the boss, okay?” Her ears flick back and forth, like she’s weighing her options.
It’s almost dusk. The light on Sugar Pine is a syrupy orange, shadows stretched into the next county. There’s nobody around but us and the horses. Chet’s quick with Copper Cash. But that horse is all shine and muscle, while Miss Adele is still mostly fuzz and promise.
Unused to so much attention, she sucks at the bit, blowing lightning-quick snorts, her eyes rolling around the barn. I stroke her withers, and she leans into me.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and pull the new saddle from the peg. My hands tremble a little, which is ridiculous. Yet, it’s one thing to train horses on your own time and another to show your stuff in front of a billionaire who can buy or fire you with the same gesture he uses to shoo a fly.
I finish tightening the girth, checking twice that it’s snug enough but not pinching. Chet and I work in silence.
“You ready?” Chet’s already on Copper Cash, who stands ready and eager, ears pricked forward and looking for trouble. Meanwhile, forget being a tech bro. Chet looks so natural and self-assured, sitting on his horse. Like a sexy, modern cowboy from a Netflix show.
A choppy laugh blusters out of me. “Sure am! Are you ready to get humiliated?”
He laughs in answer, but Chet doesn’t need false bravado. Not like me.
I climb onto Miss Adele. Then, we all clop out together, Copper Cash and Chet in front, his back straight as a wall stud, Miss Adele and me tailing.
Chet guides us through the maze of paddocks and out past the pond, where a heron dips into the reeds.
At the edge of the hayfield, he pulls up and lets Copper Cash snatch a mouthful of alfalfa.
“This was the old quarter-mile track, back when this ranch was the county fair site,” Chet says, pointing with his chin at the broad, golden strip of open space running to the barn. “Bet you didn’t know that.”
“Nope.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
Chet swings around, eyes sparking in the soft dusk. “Let’s see if your girl has enough under the hood. First one to the fence line gets bragging rights for a week.”
I start to remind Chet that Miss Adele’s never galloped outside a round pen, and it’s a minor miracle that so far, she hasn’t dumped me on my ass.
But Chet’s dare tugs at my brain—the stupid part that craves a little risk.
Miss Adele must feel the same way, because she pins her ears and points her whole body straight down the makeshift track.
“You’re on!” I shift my weight and squeeze my legs, letting her know it’s time.
She erupts under me. First a jolt, then a full-throttle takeoff that almost snaps my head back.
The wind rips through my hair; the world narrows to an alley of light and air and the thunderclap of hooves.
Chet shouts, and Copper Cash’s red-gold body surges up beside me like a four-legged tsunami.
Our horses match stride for stride, necks stretched, manes dancing like flames in the gloaming.
At first, Miss Adele holds level with Copper Cash, even nudges her muzzle a whisker past him. My lungs expand and my vision blurs with tears. Every stride is a gamble. Miss Adele’s muscles coil and shudder under my saddle, the rhythm pure exultation. We blast down the field.
But just as we pass the halfway tree, Copper Cash finds another gear. He shoots past, hooves and thunder, and Miss Adele gives a little extra wiggle of her ears; she’s as surprised as me.
But it doesn’t matter, because this is fun. It’s more than fun. Somehow, I can almost glimpse my future. And it’s raw and bright, like it could peel my eyeballs, but in a good way. Which is to say, Miss Adele and I keep at it, stubbornly increasing our speed as we finish. We lose, but not by much.
I haul Miss Adele up at the fence line, clutching her mane. She stands proud, practically vibrating with happiness. My own heart hammers so fast it’s like a hummingbird. I’m laughing and whooping and, God help me, for a split second I want to cry because this is the freest I’ve felt in years.
Chet pulls up beside me, grinning wide. “Damn, Kentucky Jane. That was . . . something.” He tosses his head. “You and Miss Adele nearly had us for breakfast. You know that, right?”
I can’t stop smiling. “Of course I do.”
We turn back, the horses walking side by side. The sky’s gone bruised and electric, fireflies lighting up the dusk.
Chet’s gaze is fixed in front of us and not on me. “Well, now you also know what it’s like racing on an abandoned Colorado fairground.”
“True,” I answer. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
His laughter is unguarded. Glancing at him, for a minute I see the boy he must’ve been before he found e-commerce, before he had an influencer girlfriend fighting cancer, and before piles of money began weighing him down.
Then his face goes serious. Like some serious, intrusive thought just destroyed his moment of happiness.
“Are the sunsets here always so beautiful?” I ask, hoping he’ll smile again.
“Pretty much,” Chet answers. But he seems far away.
We maintain a cooldown pace, the horses trotting at a congenial speed.
There’s this lazy, gold dusk slanting over the field, and the bugs make halos around the horses’ heads.
Blue mountains in the distance, barns hunkered down in the shadow.
It all looks so romantic, like the closing shot of a Western—Chet and I are just two souls riding off into the sunset.
Except, he doesn’t say more than two words to me for the rest of the evening. I’m left wondering if somehow I offended him. But that can’t be—no, the change happened inside his own head.
What is going on with Chet Edwards?