Chapter 13
Archer
The drive home is quick with Horseshoe Holler only ten minutes from Autumn Ridge. We eat our burgers from the Maple Bar and Grill as I head down the back roads.
I’ve got one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around the burger as I take a bite. A bit of ketchup lingers at the edge of my lips, so I reach out to lick it away, chewing my bite before I catch Juliet’s eyes darting away from mine.
She takes small bites at first, but soon, she’s eating as heartily as I am.
We finish just as I pass by Aunt May’s house set back from the newly paved road.
She’s sweeping the front porch, so I give my horn a little honk, and she waves in response.
I hope she can’t tell who’s with me. I’ll be the Ednas’ next topic of gossip if I’m spotted alone with Juliet.
Not that I really care. I just don’t want to risk the mayor using this as a way to cancel Sleepy Holler, now we’re only a month out.
“Do you see her often?” Juliet asks as we move past Carver Maple Farm and draw closer to my stables. “Your aunt, I mean.”
“At least once a week. I help her around the farm when I can, though I haven’t needed to as much the last couple of weeks.”
“Because James is back?”
I give her a look of surprise.
“I saw him darting away at my dad’s party.”
She doesn’t miss a thing, does she?
Still, I’m glad she doesn’t press for more information about my cousin. I don’t want to get into another sordid family affair—James and the fallout with his best friend, how he’d left for years and only now came back. He’s a good man—a far better one than the town believes.
We arrive at Horseshoe Holler a few minutes later, the property tucked up against a hillside with the stables adjacent to the house.
“Wow,” Juliet says as I pull onto the drive. “When did you build that?” Her eyes shift from my home to the stables nearby. “And that?”
“Probably the year you left for college?”
She steps out of the car and stares up at the house.
The farmhouse-style structure is painted white with exposed natural wood wrapped around in a full, front porch.
White-paned windows line the front, four on the bottom, three on the top, and two flower-hanging-baskets dangle from the edges of the porch roof.
Her eyes warm as she looks at my favorite personal touch on the house—a wooden porch swing with the back depicting a horse made out of horseshoes.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say casually, though pride pours into every inch of me. I’ve worked hard to make this house a home. It’s nice to see someone appreciate it.
“Quite the step up from the trailer home you were living in before.”
Just like that, the pride seeps from my chest and lands in a pathetic pool at my feet. “Ah, you remember that?”
“Yeah. Especially the cardboard duct-taped to the outside of the trailer in place of your windows.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t really care what I lived in before.”
She eyes the front garden where purple asters and red and orange zinnias still bloom—flowers I didn’t know the name of three years before.
“What changed?” she asks.
“A desire to see outside my windows,” I joke.
Really it was her dad’s attention that forced me to change. Mayor Monroe never thought I’d succeed, but when Horseshoe Holler became more and more profitable and popular, he ordered an inspection of my business—performed by one of his good friends—to ensure everything was up to code.
The report came back with hundreds of required changes. I wasn’t family friendly due to the “suspect nature of the living structure on the property.” AKA, my trailer home. The stables were also deemed “hazardous” due to a wayward nail here and there.
I wasn’t about to be kicked out of Autumn Ridge after all my hard work, so I poured every penny and every ounce of energy into improving everything.
I hired contractors, interior designers, lawyers, landscape architects, professional horsemen—anyone and everyone I could think of to help me design the most quintessential-looking, family-friendly-appearing, comfort-and-safety-inducing house and stables in Vermont.
Within less than a year, I passed the follow-up report with flying colors.
I guess I have the mayor to thank for it.
I was exhausted, but I never regretted the money and time I spent.
The improvements have only increased business and my value of life.
My only regret? Having such a large house all to myself.
It’s made me acutely aware of how isolated I am.
I know I’ll have a wife and kids one day to brighten up the space, but the days can get long.
We walk to the stables, and Juliet’s compliments continue. “No wonder Landrie wants her wedding here.”
“You friends with her?” I ask, though I already know the answer from that photo I apparently took of them both.
“A lot of people think we’re best friends because we used to hang out a lot in high school, but I was the person she called only when no one else was available. It was fine, though. Landrie’s better in small doses.” She nods toward the stables. “How many horses can you house in there?”
The off-white, wooden structure stretches a few hundred yards and has a brown roof and trim with sliding barn doors and hanging flower baskets.
“Sixteen,” I say as I slide the stables open. A single aisle stretches down the middle and is lined with eight stalls on each side. A few of the horses poke their heads over the half-doors as we approach.
“I got my last two just yesterday. Percherons.”
“What are those?”
“Draft horses. They’re much larger than your average horse. Big enough to pull wagons.”
“Is that what you’ll be doing with them?”
“Yeah, for the Fall Festival. The Walkers will be donating their hay to make it more festive.”
“I love the Walkers.”
So I know.
“They’re like family,” she continues.
Was that for my benefit? I’ll take it.
I’ve been in talks with Tom and his sons for the last year to start up the hayrides. Mayor Monroe is on board with it, but only because Mr. Walker is, too.
“It’s like horse heaven in here,” Juliet muses, still admiring the sight as she stares down the aisle. “Or I guess, cowboy heaven.”
We go to my office next, which is at the beginning of the stalls.
“I’m not preventing you from taking anyone on trail rides, am I?” she asks, her eyes roving about the four walls and small adjoining room.
“I don’t have any more until tomorrow.”
“Do you do them daily still?”
“Usually. Depending on my own schedule.”
“Ever get booked out?”
“Yeah. Since I put the booking online, it’s easier. I’m never opposed to adding more slots, though. I’m pretty flexible.”
While I open a side filing cabinet and pull out a few papers, she walks around the room.
Shelves line the walls and hold various trophies and buckles from my days in the rodeo.
There’s an oversized photo of me on one side of the room riding a bull—Man Eater—the draw that won me my first pro-rodeo championship.
The bull has both feet off the ground, and my arm is rigid in the air.
I don’t know how I feel about having the photo in my office, but Mom and Dad gave it to me for a housewarming present, so I felt obligated to keep it up. Having Juliet stare at it now is making me question that decision, though.
“Was it scary for you?”
Her question catches me off guard. I thought she would’ve poked fun at having photos of myself on display, not ask about my feelings.
“Riding bulls?” I clarify.
She nods.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared each time. The danger’s real because the animals are unpredictable. Willingly getting on a bull takes a lot of mental prep.”
“I’d never be able to do it. It’s even scary to watch.”
“You’ve seen some?”
“Of yours, yeah.” My eyes swing up, but she doesn’t meet my gaze as she continues. “On YouTube.”
I knew some of my rides were on there, but I never thought anyone would seek them out. “When did you watch those?”
“A few years ago. I don’t know how you didn’t end up with concussions and broken bones.”
“I did. A couple times. Arms and ribs mostly.”
She shakes her head in wonder. “Do you miss it?”
“The broken bones? No.”
She quirks a smile. “The bull riding.”
I shrug. “Sometimes. The thrill of it, maybe. The friends. The rodeos. When things were simple. Not the professional rides, though.”
“What was different about those?”
“The stakes,” I answer simply, then turn my attention back to the papers in my hand.
She wanders next to the shelf that houses a few more photos from my rodeoing days—me with my first trophy as a kid, riding broncs, and cheering on the sidelines for friends.
She folds her arms and studies each one, a look of intrigue in her eyes.
Then she points to the photo of me in my professional years next to another cowboy, the image secured in a simple, brown, wooden frame.
“Who’s this with you?”
My heart twists. “A good friend of mine. Stetson Pickett.”
“You guys are close?”
I nod, holding a pen between my pulled-in lips to use an excuse for my silence. Six years have passed, and still, I can’t bring myself to speak much about him to anyone.
She keeps looking at the photos, but I’m done walking down memory lane.
“Here you go.” I extend the pen toward her and the paper on a clipboard. “You’ll have to sign this waiver to make it an official trail ride.”
“Are you serious?”
“It just lets me know you don’t intend to sue me in the rare chance you become injured.”
She laughs. “I’m not going to sue you.”
She tries to hand the clipboard back to me, but I wave my finger.
“You don’t trust me?” she asks.
“You? Yes. Your dad?” I leave the question unanswered, which answers it anyway.
“Fine, I’ll sign it. If only to get you out there faster and finally get some answers.”
She scribbles her name down and hands it back to me.
“Thank you...” I look at the signature. “Miss...Wan...ree...o.” I give her a look. “You have a terrible signature.”
She laughs in surprise, then tosses the pen at my chest which I catch on instinct. “I was just trying to be fast.”