Chapter 5
Breaking Waylon turns into a mission after that.
Instead of waking with the rest of the hands, Grace is up an hour earlier, quietly slipping into her work clothes and boots and leaving the bunkhouse in the smallest hours of the morning.
She tells herself it’s good to work with Waylon longer and harder on a daily basis; the more human interaction he has, the more comfortable he’ll be when it’s finally time to ride him.
They stick with the lead rope for three full days.
As determined as Grace is, she also isn’t stupid enough to try to push Waylon into something he’s not ready for.
He’s a moody, grumpy thing—some hours he’s cooperative, walking nearly the entire pen at her back with ease.
Others, he’s resistant, blowing air through his nose like an errant toddler and refusing to even look at her.
“You can be pissy all you want,” she tells him one afternoon, with sweat beading at her brow and a belly full of pulled pork and coleslaw.
“But you’re gonna let me halter you tomorrow.
Not only are you gonna let me”—she yanks gently on the lead rope as Waylon pulls in the opposite direction, but not with much force—“you’re gonna be a gentleman about it.
And if you are, well, I think some of that mighty fine alfalfa over there has got your name on it. ”
Grace has always had a sense about horses.
More than any other animal she’s ever encountered, they seem to have a higher level of understanding of humans and language.
There’s an indecipherable common ground forged between a horse and its trusted companion, one that breaks through the wall of species-specific communication.
This theory is further supported by the way Waylon’s eyes seem to twinkle with delight at even the mention of alfalfa.
She wonders about Duke—who watches her training Waylon with an expression that can only be described as scrutinizing—and Crew, and whether the two have any common ground apart from being perpetually grumpy.
Forty, though confident in her horse-training abilities, is skeptical of her kitchen skills.
At first, when she reminds him of her offer to help with meals, he only passes off the task of chopping vegetables for a stir-fry.
And even then, as she chops carrots into coins and broccoli into florets, Grace can feel him occasionally monitoring her progress over her shoulder.
When she volunteers to make the sauce, he’s even more hesitant, but once he tastes the tangy, sweet and salty concoction she pulls together, he eases up.
Four days have passed since Grace’s torrid eavesdropping incident, and she’s hardly even laid eyes on Crew.
She thinks he must spend the majority of his time out in the fields supervising controlled burns, or dealing with the cattle, or maybe lying in a coffin somewhere to avoid sunlight.
Whatever the case may be, their paths, thankfully, haven’t crossed.
Which is why it’s so strange when he just appears at the stables on the morning of Grace’s fifth day at the ranch.
Nearly a full week since she arrived. Must be some sort of test, she assumes—perhaps her time has finally come to a close and it’s now or never that she proves she should be permanently put on the payroll.
She’s in the pen with Waylon, using a lunge whip to slowly caress his back.
It’s an exercise she conducts daily, incrementally extending the time by a few minutes in each consecutive session.
She needs to get him ready to be saddled and handled, and she’s quite proud of how tolerant he’s become of the sensation.
And Crew’s just…standing there. Leaning up against Duke’s paddock, a cup of coffee in his ginormous hand, staring at her. Eventually, Grace can’t take it anymore. She can’t be expected to continue her session like this, with his eyes tracking her every move.
“Need something?” she asks, adjusting her ball cap so she can stare at him fully without the impediment of the brim.
He surveys her silently for a prolonged moment. She’s on the verge of repeating herself, though she’s almost certain he heard her, when he jerks his chin in Waylon’s direction. “When are you planning on haltering him?”
The way he asks—it’s less of a question and more of an accusation. Like the progress she’s made so far is irrelevant, like Waylon isn’t leagues better than he was before she got here. It doesn’t sit well.
Grace pauses her task and lets Waylon have a much-deserved break. She tosses the whip toward the edge of the enclosure, then walks a few steps closer to Crew. “I guess I should’ve probably clarified before this moment,” she begins, diplomatic as she can possibly manage. “Am I on a deadline here?”
Crew huffs through his nose and takes a sip of coffee, as flippant as ever. “Well,” he replies after a teeth-gritting swallow. He must like his coffee as black and bitter as his damn heart. “If you don’t think you can do it, we’ll need to start looking for someone else, won’t we?”
“I can do it,” Grace bites out.
He stares at her with that stupid, indecipherable expression and an equally stupid sparkle in his brown eyes, and curtly replies, “Mm-hm.”
Patience running ever so thin, Grace sighs. “If you’re so sure he’s ready, why don’t you get out there and halter him?”
The bastard has the audacity to smile at that.
Alarmingly, and against her will, a thought surfaces in her brain—it’s the first time she’s seen him smile with his teeth.
Teeth that are imperfect and slightly coffee stained but somehow endearing despite the shit-eating grin they make up now.
They seem to be the only part of him still reminiscent of his boyhood, because the rest of him—as much as it pains her to admit it—is all man. Judgmental, impatient, hulking man.
Frustrated and eager to get back to business, Grace turns away from him. Over her shoulder she spits, “I’m getting him used to things touching his muzzle and neck with that first.” She points toward the lunge, abandoned in the dirt.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Crew says.
A few seconds pass, and Grace can hear his footsteps begin to recede. But then, because he doesn’t seem to understand how to leave well enough alone, he adds, “But time’s ticking.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
That evening, with only a half hour or so before she needs to head into the kitchen to help with dinner, Grace decides it’s as good a time as any to give it a shot.
At the very least, she can get Waylon acquainted with the sight of the halter, the feel of it on his muzzle, the rope on his back.
He’s in good spirits even after a long day of work; he walked all the way around the pen with her multiple times without complaint.
It seems only logical that they should move on to the next step in his training.
It absolutely has nothing to do with that skeptical stare Crew gave her earlier in the day, or the way he seems to be convinced that she isn’t worthy of his ranch.
But Grace is good at this. She understands this, the art of it, the push and pull of getting an animal as powerful as this one to trust. Which is why, when the halter goes on without incident, she feels a rush of self-satisfaction.
A validation that even someone as mean-spirited as Crew Caldwell can’t take away from her.
Of course, that slightly ballooning ego deflates entirely about twenty minutes into the attempt, when Waylon uses his body to disagree with Grace in an extremely abrupt and painful manner.
She has him haltered, which is half the battle, but getting him to accept it is another story entirely.
She tries to pull him gently in one direction, not tugging so hard that he associates the halter with force and aggression, but he doesn’t care.
He yanks with full force backward, and she goes flying.
It isn’t like she hasn’t been sent to the dirt by a horse before.
That part isn’t the issue. The issue is that the pull is hard enough that it dislocates her shoulder—not entirely, but enough to have her nearly scream out in pain as soon as she hits the ground.
By some miracle, she keeps it in, not wanting to scare him any more than she already has.
She lies on the ground for a good five minutes, breathing through the pain.
The message has been received loud and clear: Waylon would not like to be pushed any further.
With tears beading at the corners of her eyes, Grace wrangles him into the stables, collapses onto a bench in the barn, and tries and fails to move her right arm.
After a few ragged breaths, she psychs herself up enough to slowly trudge back to the bunkhouse, where she’d very much like to swallow about six Advil and pass out.
The other hands are concerned when she walks in—the state of her must be something quite alarming if their faces are any indication—but she waves them off, telling them she just got the wind knocked out of her and needs to sleep it off.
They seem wary, watching her as she struggles to lie in her bunk, grimacing and hissing the entire way down.
Forty comes by at some point, but Grace’s vision is blurry enough that she can hardly make out the salt-and-pepper beard and the concerned eyes.
She tells him she’s fine, just exhausted.
When she apologizes for not helping with dinner, he tells her she doesn’t need to do anything but sleep.
She tries to do just that, but it’s fitful at best. She keeps leaning on her arm and being awoken by a shooting pain that radiates through her entire body.
She pushes herself up against the wall, lying flat and still like she’s in a coffin, hoping the barrier will keep her from moving in her sleep.
She’s right there—just on the verge of falling into a blissful oblivion—when a deep, unfortunately familiar voice interrupts her almost-slumber.