Chapter Fifteen
YOU gifted with the power of pleasing him? YOU of importance to him in any way?
Sal, owner of the Jackson Hole dude ranch, is sweet as sugar.
There must have been some miscommunication, because he’s overjoyed that we’ll take the geriatric horses off his hands.
“Tapioca, Spitfire, and Gatsby are like family,” Sal states, growing a bit tearful. “Just promise you’ll treat them well.”
“You bet.” It’s better, I decide, not to bring up the dog-food factory. Don’t want to insult the man.
Figuring out logistics and then transporting the horses from northern Wyoming to southern Colorado takes a full week.
Horses can only go so long riding in a trailer.
They need lots of walking breaks, and it’s not like we can just pull over at a highway rest stop to do that.
While on the road, I call Chet with updates a couple of times.
His tone remains purely professional and perfunctory.
Sorta makes me wonder if he regrets our kiss.
I’m ready to sing hallelujah when Eric (the driver Chet hired) and I pull into Resilience Ranch late on a Wednesday afternoon.
First thing I notice is that the blue barn looks different, with a repaired roof, a door that locks shut, and real glass windows, rather than the boarded-up kind from before.
Two of those windows have air conditioning units.
That must mean they’ve installed electricity.
The second thing I notice is Axel Rose, emerging from the main barn, smiling and ready to greet me.
She’s wearing one of her usual outfits: worn black leggings, a white V-neck tee, and an oversized, soft flannel shirt.
But there’s something different about her.
It’s that the once pink streak in her blond bob is now light blue.
Also, she seems more relaxed and less harried than before.
“Jane!” she cries. “Welcome home!”
That’s when I realize just how much Resilience Ranch has come to feel like home. I capture her in a hug. “Good to see you!” I pull on her arm. “Come meet our new horses!”
Axel Rose and I lead Tapioca, Gatsby, and Spitfire out of their trailers and show them around. (They’re much easier to unload than Miss Adele was.) All the while, I’m glancing over my shoulder, wondering if Chet might appear. But he never does.
After Eric-the-driver drinks some iced tea and uses the bathroom, he heads out. I turn to Axel Rose. “What’s with the blue barn?”
She shrugs. “Chet was like a thief in the night, making those renovations. He gave me three days off while you were driving back from Wyoming. And he told the landscapers not to come. When I returned, the blue barn had been redone.”
“But why? What will he use it for?”
“I’ll let him explain that to you.” Axel Rose laughs throatily. “But under no circumstances are we to go over there.”
Strange. Very, very strange. Yet, between helping Tapioca, Gatsby, and Spitfire get acclimated, and convincing Miss Adele, Freckles, Copper Cash, and the rest of the gang to forgive me for abandoning them for a week, I’m too busy to give the matter much thought.
“Seems pretty suspicious to me,” Bront? says during our evening phone conversation. “I hope Chet is worth all the mystery he’s been shrouding himself in.”
“Whether he’s worth it is irrelevant,” I tell her. “Chet obviously doesn’t find me worth it. It’s better if I just don’t think about him.”
“Good luck with that,” Bront? states. “Easier said than done, right?”
I’m sitting on my trailer’s front step. The sun’s going down. Off in the distance, Chet’s riding Copper Cash. “Yeah,” I concede. “So distract me. What’s new with your urban food forest project and that sexy farmer who’s been flirting with you?”
Bront? launches in, giving me lots of details.
The next morning, I’m up with the sun, both to check on the new members of our horse family and—hopefully—take Miss Adele out for a ride. If I have time.
I say hello to Tapioca, Gatsby, and Spitfire and am pleased when all three seem to have had a good night. Which means my morning chores can be delayed. I stroll over to Miss Adele’s stall. “Hey, girl. Are you still mad at me? Or can we go for a ride?”
She gives me a look that says, Maybe I can be convinced. Good thing. Nothing’s worse than a horse holding a grudge.
“Hey. Welcome back.”
At the sound of Chet’s greeting, I turn.
His hair is sticking up, he’s got two days’ beard growth, and there are bags under his eyes.
He’s wearing black Levi’s and a blue T-shirt, both of which look like they could stand a swim through the washing machine.
On most guys, this would be a turnoff. Unfortunately, Chet looks sexy in a rumpled, give-me-a-cup-of-coffee sorta way.
For a moment, it’s as if we’re both paralyzed by awkwardness. I find my tongue first.
“Thank you.” I pretend my heart isn’t hammering. “Want to meet the new horses?” I gesture down the aisle, expecting him to say no and disappear into some tortured, windblown billionaire dimension.
But he follows with quiet steps, trailing me like a man set to face a firing squad.
First, we stop at Spitfire, who’s managed to wedge his massive chestnut body halfway over the stall door. His ears flick forward at the sight of Chet, who stares back with an open, wary curiosity.
“This is Spitfire,” I say, giving his neck a hearty rub. “No horse is more ironically named. His favorite activities include loafing and snoring, often at the same time.”
Chet huffs an almost smile. “That’s a lot of horse.”
“You’re telling me,” I say. “Sal said that he liked sitting down in the middle of trail rides. But no matter how lazy he became, his appetite only grew.” I nudge Chet. “Go ahead. Say hello. He doesn’t bite.”
“You want me to . . . ?” he starts, but Spitfire already noses at his shirt, bold as you please.
“He wants a treat,” I explain. “Or to eat your buttons. Spitfire, manners!”
Chet lets Spitfire snuffle at his hand, and in that moment, the horse’s bulk and the man’s broad, stubbled presence seem like matching puzzle pieces—each solid and ornery and acting like they have nothing to prove.
Next is Gatsby. “Now, his name suits him. He’s the only animal I’ve met with an ego bigger than yours,” I say, unlocking the stall. “Gatsby, meet Chet.”
“Hi, Gatsby,” Chet says. There’s a reverence in his voice, almost a hush, like he’s meeting some equine version of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Or Leonardo DiCaprio.
Gatsby minces forward, all gold dapples and movie-star eyelashes. He slimes Chet’s palm with a slobbery lick. I can see, for half a second, a weird hope light up in Chet’s face. Maybe this is the secret to all those broken pieces inside him.
Last is Tapioca, the ancient mare, her coat flecked with gray like a mottled moon. I rest my cheek on her neck, breathing in that sweet, hay-and-apples scent. “She’s the best listener on Earth,” I say. “Not much for running, but she’ll keep your secrets safe.”
When Chet reaches out, Tapioca leans into his big, callused hand with something like trust, and my chest wobbles a little at the sight.
We stand there a long time, silently petting the horses. I keep my eyes on Tapioca’s shoulder and not on Chet. Then he has to ruin the moment by talking.
“I owe you an apology,” he says.
Oh no. Not again.
Sucking in a breath, I hazard meeting his gaze. And I find two nearly black balls of remorse. This man obviously takes life, and himself, far too seriously. “Chet, you don’t owe me anything. But whatever you think you did wrong—I forgive you.”
Chet scowls like I offended him. “You need to hear me out.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he states simply, “I have a lot to say.”
“Couldn’t you just talk to yourself? Pretend that I’m here, listening with bated breath?”
Another scowl. “What does ‘bated breath’ even mean?”
“You’ve never heard that phrase before?”
“I’ve heard it,” he says, “but what does it mean?”
I sigh. “Well, I never went to college. But I believe it stems from abated breath, like someone has stopped breathing. If they’re waiting with bated breath, they’re so anxious to hear whatever it is that they’re holding their breath.”
“You’re just a font of knowledge.” Chet smiles. “Wanna explain what font of knowledge means?”
“I would, but your head might explode with all the new information.” I grin.
“Besides, I was just about to take Miss Adele for a ride.” Slipping past Chet, I walk toward her stall.
I’m pulling on Miss Adele’s reins, leading her out of the barn, thinking I’m home free, when Chet speaks to my back. “Jane!”
I turn and face him. “Yeah?”
Chet’s chest expands. “Let me just say, it was wrong of me to—”
“Stop.” I hold out my hand, palm flat, fingers spread. “If you think you’re gonna apologize for kissing me, think again. I won’t have it.”
A thick crease appears between Chet’s eyes. “You don’t understand. I never should have—”
“No! I do understand. Completely.” I release a whooshing breath.
“There’s your whole list of reasons for staying away from me.
There’s the fact that I sort of saw you naked and you sort of let me.
There’s a power imbalance. You took advantage of my trusting nature.
You’re still entangled in a past relationship, and you’re emotionally unavailable.
As my boss, you should know better. Yada, yada, yada. Did I leave anything out?”
Chet opens his mouth to respond, only to press his lips back together. He shakes his head twice, quickly and abruptly.
“Okay, then. We’re good. Especially since I didn’t look away when you were in that shower stall, I was complicit in what happened by the firepit, and when you kissed me, I definitely kissed you back. Now can I go for my ride with Miss Adele?”
“In a sec.” Chet squeezes his eyes shut, pausing, like he can’t quite process everything I just said. “Um, you may have noticed that I’m renovating the blue barn.”
“Uh-huh,” I respond.
Chet shoves his hands in his pockets, casual-like. “I did it for my aunt Grace. She’s going through a rough patch and needed a place off the beaten path—you know, to practice self-care before making any major decisions. She’s a very private person. You’re not to disturb her, understood?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” After a beat of silence, I ask, “Now can Miss Adele and I go for that ride?”
Chet nods.
“Come on, girl,” I say to my second-favorite horse in the world. To Chet, I say nothing. Finally, Miss Adele and I are on our way.
The sky is overcast, and the air’s thick with the hush that most likely means rain by noon.
I lead Miss Adele past the barn, her steps light and springy.
We take the hill at an easy jog, and by the time we reach the lookout over the valley, she’s settled into that magic zone—ears flicking, eyes half-lidded, the big exhale of a horse who feels safe.
“Good girl,” I murmur. After a few minutes, Miss Adele and I finish our ride and aim for the back entrance of the barn. Inside, Axel Rose is mucking a stall at double speed, her blue T-shirt billowing around her. I slide off Miss Adele and lead her in for a brush-down.
“You started early,” I say, grabbing a curry comb.
“I was ready to get going,” she replies.
Nodding, I keep my eyes on Miss Adele’s neck. “Chet told me about the blue barn this morning. That his aunt Grace is practicing self-care?”
Axel Rose laughs. “Right. Only a billionaire would spend a truckload of money renovating an old barn for his aunt to practice self-care. Especially when he has that huge house. Why doesn’t she just stay in the guest room?”
“I know, right? It’s all so strange. But Chet is so strange. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t get a read on him.”
Axel Rose stops laughing. “Why do you need to get a read on Chet, Jane?”
Luckily, I’m saved from having to answer, because River walks into the barn. “Good morning, ladies!” Though he’s talking to us both, River winks at me. “Anything specific you’d like me to start on first?”
“I’m so glad you asked, River,” Axel Rose says. “The grass inside the riding ring has gotten way too high.”
He grins. “I’ll get on that right away.” Then, looking right at me, he says, “Join me for a break in a couple of hours?”
“You got it,” I tell him.
Axel Rose meets my eye and smiles, as if to say, Now that’s how things should be.