Four
Cassidy
Every muscle in my body screams out for relief, but I know the second I stop, I might not be able to get up.
That’s why when the golf cart rounds the bend, planting me in front of the colts’ gate, I hop out with unwarranted enthusiasm, and heave the bucket of grain from the back of the cart.
With another protest from my biceps, or possibly my triceps, I set the bucket near my mud-caked boots. Relief that Wesley trusted me enough to part ways sometime around noon feeds my soul the way a trip to the sea cures an old widow.
My hair has since migrated from a sleek ponytail at the back of my head to a frizzy mess piled atop my head.
Wind whips wild strands around my face when I grab the twine wrapped around the bale of hay. I force all my strength into lifting it from the back of the cart as the alfalfa pokes at my skin, leaving faint scratches up and down my forearms.
Cutting the bale with scissors, I separate the flakes and throw them over the fence as far as I can get them, then I trudge through the mud to an eager mass of young horses with a bucket in hand.
Thankfully, I met this group earlier today, so I know a little about their personalities.
What I don’t know is why Wesley chose to place the feed troughs so far from the gate where we get the horses.
My sock is wet, making a very obscene fart noise with every step I take, but if I’m being honest, these boots have been doing that all day. It’s just getting progressively worse.
The cheap rain boots were no replacement for the sturdier pair of muck boots that were supposed to arrive this morning, but once again, my package got delayed, and I was left with shoes that quake at the slightest scratch of a tree branch.
Needless to say, one wrong step, and my left boot was no longer waterproof.
Thus, the farting sock.
I scoop the feed into buckets, check each of the horses over, and turn to leave the field, knowing my last task was successfully completed.
All I can think about is my bed—soft with fresh sheets and a plush mattress cover I am so thankful I purchased while wallowing two months ago over how unfulfilled I’d felt at my job.
When I’d first gotten the job at the bar, it had been an urgent need to establish myself after moving back.
The dimly lit room felt suffocating, especially considering it’s where I first met Chad.
That place held memories of that which I’d rather forget, and while it served me for a time, I’d long outgrown its confines.
I’m much more suited to a job with more space—more room to grow. So even though I find myself longing for a good rest as soon as these horses eat, and I get the smell of hay out of my hair, I find that I like it out here.
Gentle wind rustles the grass as it snakes its way in my direction. I pause, keeping hold of the empty grain bucket and breathing deeply, as if I could fill my lungs with whatever stillness exists out here. Less noise and more purpose.
Trees run along the fenceline at the far end of the field, new leaves just beginning as spring touches the earth. Vibrant green ripples around horses as they happily eat their grain.
Everything here is so free from pressure and expectations. The expectation is that it should exist, and that is enough.
I look beyond the colts, and my step stutters when I spot a devious-looking goose from across the field. The bird migrates toward the horses, intent on theft, no doubt.
When it gets close enough, it honks, releasing a battle cry before flapping its wings and hissing, sending the boys stampeding away from the troughs so the greedy bird can steal their grain I so meticulously scooped.
“Most important thing,” Wes had said, “make sure they’re eating. If they’re not, it could be a sign of a sick horse, and for the youngsters, they need to keep their strength up if they’re to do well at the sales come autumn.”
His words stoke the flames of my frustration as I drop the bucket, making a beeline for the awful creature.
“Nuh, uh!” I holler, shooing the bird away. “No, you don’t. This is not your food!”
It is absolutely imperative that I do this job well. Stripped of any complexities, the job is to care for the animals. That means every animal eats, gets water, and has shelter. I learned this way back in kindergarten science.
The goose morphs into something larger. It is a representation of all the things that could chase me away from finally doing something I love.
The goose is the expectations of my parents.
It is the incessant need to consider others in every decision I make.
It is the stability and success expected of every eldest daughter, and the fear of doing something that does not follow society’s preconceived notions for what is considered a “good and stable job.”
I can almost hear the old western music playing in the background as I prepare to duel this evil monster that so rudely thought it fit to steal from my horses.
My arch nemesis is, unfortunately, a large bird.
“I take my job very seriously!” I warn, but the thing just hisses.
There will be no backing down from this farm hand.
I simply cannot go back to working at the bar.
I can’t. Even though my muscles protest with every step and hay and dirt—maybe even poop—have become my latest hair accessories, the sunshine has reminded me why people purchase vitamin D lamps in the winter.
“You cannot have their food!” I yell, breaking into a sprint and waving my arms when the hissing goose raises its wings.
It honks again, retreating on account of my very convincing battle cry, but I’m not satisfied until the goose spreads its wings and flies back to whatever hell it came from.
My heart slows, satisfaction making me straighten my posture. When I turn back, I find a row of young horses staring at me like I’m their mother, and I’ve just pulled up to their high school blasting the outdated music and yelling slang I don’t understand from the window.
Which is ridiculous, because I obviously just saved them from starvation.
Grunting, I snatch the bucket from the ground and mutter under my breath, “It was all for you guys. No need to look at me like I’m an idiot.”
The walk back to the gate feels more like a walk of shame, especially when I am about fifteen yards from my destination, and my foot slips, sending me sprawling on my back until I’m looking up at the endless blue sky above me.
Without a cloud to be seen, I consider drowning in such a lovely day before realizing my entire back and head are wet with thick mud.
It feels like every misstep I’d taken with Chad, and I wince.
When he’d walked into the bar, all clean lines and a pressed suit, I’d basked in the attention.
Chad represented the kind of success and stability I craved, so it came as a surprise when I realized he’d never actually cared for me at all.
I ignored every single red flag—the way he introduced me to his friends as if I were a brood mare he planned to sell to the highest bidder. He’d spouted a lot of facts about me then, but still couldn’t manage to get my coffee order right when we went out.
I’ve never once enjoyed a plain old americano.
Not ever.
“Gross,” I whisper, closing my eyes and feeling the dampness of the ground seep into my clothes.
“Everything alright out there?”
My stomach sinks. Which is surprising considering I am both physically and mentally positioned firmly at rock bottom. Where did the organ even go? The pits of hell?
“Great!” I shout back at Wesley before sitting up with the brightest smile I can muster.
I give two thumbs way up and pretend my cheeks are not flaming when I see my new boss with one boot resting on the first rung of the wooden fence.
His baseball cap is backward, and a smile stretches around the toothpick clutched between very white teeth.
Honestly, he looks like the epitome of every farm owner or stable hand to ever cause a sexual awakening. I mean, the mustache? Come on.
This is horrible.
“You need help?” he asks, and I find the strength within myself to stand up.
“Oh no,” I say, burying my embarrassment. “I’m perfectly fine. The mud was a great way to cool down before I go. Chores are all done!”
“Alright.” Wes pushes off the fence and begins walking away.
I use the opportunity to curse—colorfully and under my breath, with brows furrowed and my scowl so deep I begin to think I’ll get tan lines, or at the very least, premature wrinkles.
“Coming back tomorrow?” Wes questions, and I fix my face as soon as I realize he’s looking at me again.
While the last thirty minutes have left a lot to be desired, I like the place.
I can imagine what it will look like when evening comes, and the sky is painted in vibrant color.
Pink and purple will bleed behind the willow tree sleeping next to the pond.
If I stay here, I will get the house at the end of the drive.
My backyard will be set by this very same backdrop, and I might have the opportunity to see such a sunset away from the scent of stale alcohol and overly forward patrons.
Out here, it’s so easy to think—so easy to lose myself in every task, and stop worrying so much about the things I can’t control.
I’m locked in—committed in a way Chad never could have been.
When I reach the gate, I pause, my smile beaming across the yard to where Wes stands waiting for a response.
There really is no other answer. If chasing a goose and falling in the mud is alright with him, I would certainly like to stay here, for as long as possible.
“Absolutely,” I answer. “I will grab my paperwork from the office and be back bright and early.”
“I’m never going back.”
I groan, realizing it was a terrible idea to starfish myself on Lennon’s plush area rug. The vintage cushion of a carpet smells like amber and fresh jasmine. I close my eyes, melting into the faded maroon pattern and wondering if anyone can see how pitiful I look.