Chapter 13 #2
“If you say so.”
She wrinkles her nose at me like she’s upset, but the cobalt in her eyes shines brightly. “So what do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house. This time.” My eyes drop to her toes. “Now, we’ve got to do something about those sandals.”
She presses her feet together and wiggles her pink toenails. “Not horse appropriate?”
“Not exactly. Lucky for you, we at Horseshoe Holler are prepared for everything.”
This was one of the hazards the mayor had complained about—people wearing the appropriate shoes while riding.
It was a good thing to be aware of, just a nuisance. I’d gone above and beyond and bought over sixty pairs of boots of all different sizes, then sent the photo to the mayor with a passive aggressive comment. Something like, “I’m not sure if this is enough to cover my bases, but I sure am trying.”
Most people come prepared with hard-toe shoes, so buying this many boots was a waste of money. It did prove to shut the mayor up for a few months, so in the end, what I spent was worth it.
“I’m an eight-and-a-half,” Juliet says.
“I’m sure I’ve got one or two of that size laying around.”
I enter the side room where the boots are on display on long shelves, then I come out with a pair of turquoise-swirled Ariats and new socks still in their wrapping. “Complimentary socks, to boot.”
“Pun intended?” she asks, accepting the footwear.
“Always.”
She outfits herself, then eyes them. “They’re a bit big at the ends.”
“That’s the toe box. It’s so you can still move your feet. And so the horse doesn’t break your toes with his hooves.”
She looks up in alarm, and I smile to soften my words. “I wish I was joking.”
She releases a nervous laugh. “So...hat next?”
I dart within the side room again and come out a minute later with a black, velvet helmet and a cowgirl hat—things I’ve also acquired to accommodate guests and their needs.
It’s a Stetson Skyline, made with dark fur felt with a silver buckle at the side.
It’s always been a favorite of mine, though most women don’t choose it.
Hat hair and all.
“Since you’re older than seventeen this time”—I give her a look that says, luckily—“you get to choose between hard, protective helmet or cowgirl hat.”
“Hat,” she says instantly.
I was hoping she’d say that.
She puts it on. “How does it look?”
Pleasure stirs at the base of my stomach. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so attracted to someone.
“Very nice,” I manage.
I try to look away, but my eyes take her in, swallowing great, satisfying gulps of the beauty she serves up in her half-cowgirl glory.
She speaks of me being her high school fantasy when she just might become my cowgirl fantasy.
We leave the office and the stables behind to go outside where a few of my horses linger in the paddock nearby. They’re already by the fence, no doubt having been waiting for us since our arrival at the stables.
Juliet allows each of them to smell the back of her hand as they greet us.
“You can take your pick,” I say.
“I didn’t get to do that last time.”
“I don’t usually let people choose. With the different riding levels, it gets difficult. But these are all really docile, beginner horses, so I feel comfortable with you riding any of them.”
She falls silent, though I’m not sure why.
After a minute of looking between Misty, my gray mare, and Maverick, my buckskin dun gelding, who both wander away after a moment, she points to the palomino mare with white socks, who stays nearby. “That one. He seems to like me more.”
“She. Rapunzel.”
“Oh.” She gives a nervous laugh. “My apologies, madam.”
“Come on. Let’s tack her up.”
Once again, she falls silent. “I’m not sure I’m capable of doing that,” she says in a small voice.
Is she insecure about her lack of experience around horses? I didn’t think she’d be comfortable around them. Most people aren’t. Truth be told, I had the selfish hope that she would be out of her comfort zone. It would make me feel better for how insecure I felt at her dad’s party.
But I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. “It’s okay. I’ll do the hard parts. You can do the easy stuff.”
She nods, though she doesn’t look any happier.
After tying the horses to the outside of the fence, I lead her back to the tack room where we take a few trips to gather the bridles, saddles, and pads.
“Wanna try lifting it up?” I say hoisting my saddle off the fence.
“If I even try to hold that, I’ll fall flat on my face.”
I chuckle, then heave the saddle up myself. I make quick work of tacking up Irving, my leopard gelding, and Juliet watches me with an unfailing gaze.
She’s quick to learn as I point out the various pieces, buckles, and belts, and to my surprise, she’s unafraid to try out each step when it comes time to tacking up Rapunzel.
I lift the saddle for her, but she does most of the work on her own under my instruction. By the end, she props her hands on her hips. “How’s that for beginner?”
Beginner. That’s why she fell silent before. I didn’t mean it as a slight. We’re all beginners in one thing or another. But I have a feeling Juliet isn’t a beginner for long in most aspects of her life.
She stands next to Rapunzel, peering up at her. The top of Juliet’s head barely reaches the horse’s back.
I point to the stepping stool nearby. “You’ll probably want a mounting block.”
“No, I got it.”
My lips part with unspoken words of advice because her look of determination is undeniable. She’s going to do this her way.
She holds onto both ends of the saddle and lifts her right foot first, barely managing to hoist it into the stirrup. She bounces up and down helplessly for a moment to try to hoist herself up.
I clear my throat. “Um, wrong foot.”
“What? Oh, Oops.”
She manages to peel her foot from the stirrup, then tries again with her left.
“Want some help?” I offer.
“No, thanks. I’m gonna do this myself.”
When she finally sticks the correct boot into the stirrup, she takes a deep breath and kicks off the ground.
She finally manages to hoist herself up from the dirt, but unfortunately, her foot slips from the stirrup, her hat falls to the ground on the other side of the horse, and now she’s planking horizontally across Rapunzel.
A memory rushes toward me. “Oh my heck.”
“What?” she asks with a grunt.
“I remember you.”