Chapter Nine
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.
It’s late Friday afternoon when my cell phone’s screen lights up with a name.
Reed.
My stomach drops straight through the barn floor. Something’s gotta be wrong. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be calling.
“Hi, Reed,” I chirp, hating how tinny my voice must sound. “What’s up?”
Reed skips saying hello. Instead, he barks at me. “Why didn’t you tell me about Jackson and Melissa?” A pause, loaded and deliberate. “Do you really hate me that much?”
I look at the hay bale in front of me and briefly consider throwing my phone into it. “How did you find out?” I ask instead.
Reed laughs, but there’s nothing warm in it. “Jackson’s been on a bender since his dad fired him.”
“Fired him? Why?”
“Because his parents got tired of him sleeping with half the county. They told him to settle down or get out. He got out. Now he’s making the rounds at every bar between here and nowhere, drunk enough to brag to anyone who’ll listen.
” Reed’s voice tightens. “One of those people was a buddy of mine. Word is, you caught Jackson and Melissa getting it on, and then you begged for a threesome. They turned you down, so you left.”
The rage that moves through me is swift and physical, like touching a hot stove. “That is not what happened.”
“I know, Janey.”
Something in me goes very still. “You do?”
“Of course. I mean, I had to confront my wife. And Melissa told me the truth.” There’s a strange breathiness to Reed’s voice, like his chest is so hollow that it’s created an echo.
“She fessed up. Then she said she’s not in love with me anymore, but we can stay married anyway.
No need to shake things up, according to her. ”
“Oh, Reed—”
“I’m ending it, of course.” His tone turns hard. “I’m not letting that woman make a fool of me. But Melissa’s already got a divorce attorney, and she’ll be putting me through a wood chipper. Not just me, but Adkins and Son Stables as well.”
A slow, deliberate chill washes down my spine. I grip a brush so hard my hand cramps. “She can’t take Betty. Promise you won’t let her.”
“Nice,” he says, voice flat. When he laughs it’s just air, like the wind in a hollow pipe. “You’re more worried about a horse than you are about your own brother. But I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, you left. And you weren’t even going to say goodbye.”
His anger is like a lit match in dry grass. I try to dam up my own anger, but some leaks through. “What do you want me to do? Come home to be the butt of every family joke? I finally found something I’m good at. I’m not leaving.”
He snorts. “That’s the way it’s always been. Jane Wreck, running from her messes and leaving the family to clean them up. I hope you find what you’re looking for out there.”
He doesn’t end the call, yet the line prickles with so much spite, it’s almost like he has. “Don’t let her take Betty.”
There’s a click, softer than a heart murmur. Reed’s gone.
So I just stand there, listening to Miss Adele’s nervous breathing, my bones buzzing like spent batteries.
Thinking about Betty.
For a moment (when I close my eyes), I’m back in Kentucky.
The heat and humidity press in, and the smell of alfalfa wafts overhead.
Betty’s in her stall, looking down the aisle for me.
She’s puzzled and maybe still a little heart-hurt, as if horses can tally human failings. Which, they can. At least, Betty can.
When Miss Adele nips at my shoulder, I’m back in Colorado, at Resilience Ranch. I put a hand on Miss Adele’s neck, feeling her warmth. “It’s okay,” I murmur.
But that’s a lie. Nothing is okay.
A couple hours later and I’m walking in circles around the property, like a horse in a ring.
There’s a soft breeze, carrying with it the hazy sound of female laughter.
I look around and spot Axel Rose sitting in a wooden chair on Chet’s porch, with another woman beside her.
Between them sits a small table with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
When Axel Rose sees that I’ve noticed her, she waves broadly. “Jane!” she calls. “Come join us!”
Refusing would be rude, so I cross the lawn, cutting between two tidy flowerbeds and climbing the steps to the porch.
The other woman is about Axel Rose’s age, with long, straight hair dyed so black it could be patent leather.
She’s got hipster energy, dressed in a blazer, a vintage AC/DC concert T-shirt, and ripped jeans, silver rings on every other finger, sunglasses perched on her head even though the sun’s nearly gone.
Full of dramatic flair. She stands when she sees me.
“Marigold Sanders,” she says, extending her hand. “Axel Rose is my BFF.”
“Oh!” Shaking her warm, dry hand over and over, I glance at Axel Rose. “Well, butter my backside and call me a biscuit! You’re besties with the Marigold Sanders?”
Axel Rose chortles. “Watch what you say, Jane. You’ll give her a big head.”
Somehow, Marigold releases her fingers from my grasp. “Axel Rose and I go all the way back to middle school in Reston, Virginia.”
My mouth drops open. “And you both wound up here in Sugar Pine! How?”
A crooked grin spreads across Axel Rose’s face. “That’s a story for another day.”
“Yes,” Marigold says. “I’d much rather hear how a young person like you came to read my books.”
“Well,” I reply, “my mom bought every single one of your novels, and I read them all one summer—I was permanently grounded for reasons I won’t go into.
” Feeling myself blush, I laugh. “They were all so good, but Escape from the Springs is my favorite. It makes me believe anything is possible. It’s part of the reason I moved out here. ”
A humble smile lights up Marigold’s face. “Thank you,” she says. “And please thank your mother for being such a loyal fan.”
“Will do,” I say. But part of me wonders if my family and I will ever be on speaking terms again.
“Axel Rose says you’re from Kentucky,” says Marigold, refilling her wine glass.
“That you’ve been working wonders with the horses.
” She turns the full beam of her attention on me.
“You’ve got wonderful posture. I always say, you can tell a horse woman by the way she stands up straight with her shoulders back. ”
“You’re very kind, but I stand like that because I’m so short. Always trying to add an inch or two!”
“Well, whatever the case, you should take a load off now, Jane.” Axel Rose pours me a glass of wine without asking if I want one.
But I do want one. Since there isn’t another chair, I sit down, cross-legged on the porch floor, and sip my wine. “So,” I ask, “what were you two chatting about before I came along?”
Marigold and Axel Rose give me the lowdown on all the Sugar Pine gossip. The conversation is warm and easy. I sink into it for a few minutes, letting the wine and the dusk and the faintest buzz of porch lights smooth my nerves.
But then my brain starts crackling again, refusing to stay on the porch, yanking me back to thoughts of Betty.
The way she can read my mind, how she’ll nuzzle me, eyes soft and head bowed, whenever I’m grooming her.
Or how, when we’re on a ride, she’ll read my cues before I even make them.
For the last few years, my greatest moments of happiness and peace have been with Betty, ambling through a gentle Kentucky morning.
“Jane?” It’s Axel Rose, snapping her fingers. “Where’d you go just now?”
I blink, startled by how easily I’d time-traveled back to Kentucky in my mind. “Sorry. I had some troubling news today.”
Axel Rose’s gaze turns surgical. “You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out. What’s going on?”
I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a weird, broken laugh. “You sure you want to hear? It’ll bring down the mood.”
“Please,” Marigold says. “We both thrive on other people’s drama. It’s the only way we can stop dissecting our own lives.”
So I tell them.
I tell them the whole thing, fast and breathy, like I’m galloping through the story before it can catch me.
About how I earned the “Jane Wreck” nickname.
How my family just barely tolerated me and the humiliation I caused them.
How Jackson wanted to marry me, but that all blew up when I caught him with Melissa.
About Betty, and my fear that Melissa will dig her claws into my heart horse. And that Reed might let her.
I run out of words and the silence that follows is long and heavy. Marigold crosses her arms, and Axel Rose leans forward, elbows braced on her knees. She speaks first. “What if you bought Betty yourself? Brought her out here to Resilience Ranch?”
I shake my head. “A horse like Betty could go for as much as $75,000.” My throat goes thick.
Marigold gives me a long, odd look, as if she’s appraising how much hurt I can survive before breaking. “What about your parents?” she asks. “Can’t you ask them to step in?”
“No. They’re still furious at me for abandoning them and the family business.”
“Okay,” Marigold states. “But how can they blame you for that? After they gave Reed part ownership of the stables and you got nothing?”
“Because they wasted a lot of money on jockey training for me.” I sigh. “I flaked out on that, and then I flaked out on becoming a large animal vet technician. Now they believe I’m too impulsive and temperamental. That I’d make a mess of things.”
Marigold’s mouth twists like she’s tasted something sour. “Didn’t Reed make a mess of things by marrying Melissa?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” I stare at my hands, picking at my cuticles. “But that doesn’t change how I feel. Losing Betty would break my heart.”
Marigold looks off into the distance. “Oh, hon. Of course it would. But take it from one who knows—a broken heart is not the worst thing in the world. You’ll recover, and afterward you’re stronger for it.”
We’re quiet for a long moment, just letting the dusk descend. Then, a new sound rises. Shoes thunk against the hard wood. Chet stands in the open doorway, backlit by that big modern foyer.
The three of us snap to attention. Marigold nearly spills her wine. Axel Rose just lifts her chin in greeting, as if she’s not slightly tipsy.
“Pardon me, ladies.” Chet’s tone is formal, but there’s an edge of interest. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He looks different tonight, in his navy T-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from his shower. His gaze lands on me for just a fraction too long. I look away, the only trick I know to keep from blushing.
Marigold is first to recover. “Chet—so good to see you!” she practically sings. “Pour yourself a glass and join the party!”
Chet steps only halfway out. “No thanks,” he says. “Just thought I’d say hello. Also, Jane—thank you for the work you did today with Freckles. I’ve never seen him so trusting and relaxed.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll start the same training technique with Miss Adele tomorrow.” I’m careful to use my most professional voice, trying to hide that the wine’s got me remembering him naked in that shower stall.
Chet nods. “Glad to hear it.” He gives me this strange, searching look, then pivots and disappears back into the house. The door swings shut behind him. When I’m sure he’s gone, I let out a slow, careful exhale.
Marigold immediately starts in. “That man is wound tighter than an eight-day clock.”
Axel Rose chuckles. “He’s not so bad. I think he just needs a hobby or something.”
“Aren’t horses his hobby?” Marigold asks. “Or do you mean that he just needs to get laid?”
My mouth drops open in shock. “How can you say that when his girlfriend is battling lymphoma?”
“Birdy Banks?” Marigold rolls her eyes. “According to my sources, that relationship is over.”
“Really? Who are your sources?”
Marigold gestures toward Axel Rose. I give her an imploring look.
“Thanks,” Axel Rose says to Marigold. “You weren’t supposed to repeat that.”
She shrugs. “Sorry.”
Axel Rose shakes her head. “Do me a favor, and don’t feature Chet and Birdy’s relationship in your next novel, okay?”
“No promises,” Marigold answers. “A sexy, brooding billionaire who trusts no one, including himself, and the ailing woman who loves him? That’s like crack for romance readers.”
I stare at the faraway porch light above the barn, faint as a firefly, while Axel Rose and Marigold continue their BFF banter. Then, mustering some bravado, I tilt my glass and lean toward the other women, voice low. “Please don’t let Chet know that I intend to buy Betty from my family.”
“Do you intend to buy her from your family?” Axel Rose asks.
I nod, realizing that it’s true. “But if Chet knew, he’d worry that I’ll beg him to buy her himself, and then things would be so awkward . . .”
Both women tilt their heads, mulling over what I just said.
“Or . . .” Axel Rose raises an eyebrow. “You could let us bring it up in a very subtle sort of way. I bet he’d help you, if he thought that doing so was his own idea.”
“No.” My response is flat and strong.
“But—” Marigold’s eyes grow wide. “For Chet, buying Betty would be a drop in the bucket. Like a normal person spending ten bucks on a new pair of socks.”
“Asking him for money wouldn’t be right,” I state. “And I could never bring myself to do it.”
They appear convinced. Because they don’t press me further. Instead, the three of us sip the last of our wine, watching as the sun sets behind the mountains.