Chapter 17
EPHRAIM
Time, they say, heals all wounds. But what nobody warns you about is how differently healing can manifest for different people.
For Larkin, her healing seemed to be happening in the open, through her work with horses, the clear-eyed passion that had returned to her when she spoke about her vision for the rescue.
For me, healing was coming slower, through the gradual wearing down of old habits and defenses, through blisters on my hands and the aching in my bones at the end of each day.
Our conversation in the apartment had opened a door, but it hadn’t erased years of patterns we had fallen into.
Larkin maintained a careful distance, friendly and warm but with boundaries clearly established.
She laughed at my jokes over morning coffee in the barn and worked alongside me without the tension that had marked our earliest encounters, but when the workday ended, she retreated to her apartment alone, her goodnight nothing more than a simple acknowledgment of the next morning’s tasks.
For my part, I recognized that pushing for more would undo the fragile progress we were making.
I had made my position clear, shown my willingness to change and my understanding of what had gone wrong.
The rest needed to happen on her timeline, no matter how much my heart ached to bridge the remaining space between us.
So I threw myself into the work, discovering not just competence but genuine satisfaction in the daily rhythms of the rescue.
Waylon visited occasionally, always with more papers that needed signing or decisions requiring my input, but even those intrusions from my old life began to feel distant, like obligations to another version of myself rather than essential elements of my present.
Each time I signed a document or approved a business decision from a thousand miles away, I felt the cords tethering me to that life loosening further.
“You’re getting good at this.” Harlan’s gruff observation came as I finished reinforcing a section of the western fence one afternoon. The old cowboy had become an unexpected mentor in these weeks, his approval hard-earned and therefore meaningful.
“It’s not rocket science.” I wiped sweat from my forehead, the simple task of physical labor feeling more rewarding than closing any business deal I could remember. “But thank you. I’m learning a lot.”
“More than that, I’d wager.” His knowing eyes found mine across the fence we’d just repaired. “Horses are good teachers if you’re willing to listen.”
He wasn’t wrong. Working with the animals at the rescue had revealed something fundamental about myself.
Unlike humans, horses didn’t care about my bank account or social standing, didn’t respond to intimidation or negotiation tactics.
They demanded presence, patience, consistency.
With Courage especially, I had discovered a connection that bypassed all the sophisticated communication skills I had cultivated in boardrooms, requiring something more authentic.
“It’s different with them.” I rested my hands on the top rail, the satisfaction of the completed work settling comfortably into my bones. “They don’t let you fool yourself about who you are.”
Harlan grunted his agreement. “That’s why I’ve stayed in this business all these years, even when the money isn’t great and the hours are long.
” Having seen the operating expenditures of the rescue as its primary benefactor, I knew how little Harlan made, but he did this for the love of the work, not the paycheck.
“Nothing clears the head like an animal looking you straight in the eye and showing you exactly who you’re dealing with.
” He paused, his expression turning thoughtful.
“And you’re not just different with the horses, you know. ”
I looked away, not wanting to have my growing feelings for Larkin dissected by the perceptive old man. “I’m trying.”
“No need to get defensive, son. I’ve seen what happens when two people share this kind of work.
It changes things. Not always for the better, mind you.
Some relationships can’t handle this kind of honesty.
” His gaze drifted toward the main barn where Larkin was working with some local children, teaching them basic grooming skills with one of our gentler therapy horses.
I followed his line of sight, watching my wife with new eyes.
In her element, surrounded by both horses and the vulnerable kids she dedicated herself to helping, Larkin radiated a purpose and contentment that I realized I had never seen at the ranch, even when we first married.
The ranch had been her compromise, a place for her horses but ultimately still my territory.
This was different, this was entirely her creation and vision.
“She was never going to fully thrive in my world,” I said quietly, acknowledging a truth I had resisted for years.
“No,” Harlan agreed. “But she’s been learning to make space for herself here. The question is, can you fit yourself into that space without taking it over?”
The directness of his question made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t deny its relevance. Everything had changed since I had arrived unexpectedly at the rescue, but nothing had truly resolved the central issue between us, whether we could build a shared future that honored both our needs.
“I’m not trying to take over,” I insisted, then immediately recognized the defensive tone in my voice. “At least, I don’t mean to. I just want to be part of it, whatever ‘it’ is between us now.”
Harlan studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
“That’s a good place to be right now. Keep showing her, not just saying.
Actions over words, that’s what works with horses and hurt women.
” With that piece of homespun wisdom, he walked off toward the feed storage building, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the view of Larkin laughing as she guided a shy child’s hand along a horse’s flank.
Days turned into weeks as I settled into my new routine, splitting my time between remote management of Holt Enterprises and physical work at the rescue.
I rented a modest apartment a few miles from the rescue property, creating some physical space between Larkin and me even as I maintained my daily presence at her workplace.
It was a strange existence, not quite a separation and nowhere near a reconciliation, but I sensed it was necessary for both of us to find our footing individually before we could consider what we might become together.
Larkin gradually opened up in small ways, sometimes asking for my help with a specific task or including me in conversations with volunteers about the horses’ progress.
The breakthrough came with Courage, who had blossomed under our combined attention into a different animal altogether, showing interest in the children who visited and demonstrating a calm intelligence that impressed even Harlan.
One afternoon, as I was finishing grooming Courage, Larkin entered the stall, watching in silence as the horse nuzzled my hand in search of the carrot I was offering.
Something about the trust evident between man and horse must have moved her, for when I turned to look at her, her eyes were glistening with emotion.
“He never would have let anyone touch him when he first arrived,” she said, her voice soft with wonder. “You’ve done something remarkable with him.”
“We did something remarkable with him.” I emphasized the we, wanting her to know I saw this as our success together.
She gave me a small, almost shy smile that I would have given a small fortune to see more often. “It’s been a team effort.”
We worked together to finish with Courage, our movements naturally complementary without needing to discuss who would do what.
There was a comfort to it, a return to the ease we once shared that made my chest ache with both pleasure and regret for how rare it had become.
I wanted desperately to reach out to her, to bridge the few inches separating us with a touch that would communicate everything I was struggling to express, but I held back, respecting the boundaries she still needed.
As we secured Courage’s stall and moved out into the afternoon sunshine, Larkin surprised me by speaking first about something unrelated to our work.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began hesitantly, “about the future of the rescue. Harlan won’t be able to manage everything indefinitely, and I need to start planning for more stability, maybe even expanding our capacity. ”
Her business-mindedness was familiar, but the openness of including me in these early thoughts was new. I walked beside her toward the equipment barn, carefully choosing my response. “What does expansion look like to you? More horses? A bigger facility?”
“Both, eventually.” She leaned against the fence surrounding the main pasture, watching the horses graze. “The demand for our services keeps growing. We have a waiting list for therapy sessions and more horses being surrendered than we can take. But expanding would require significant funding.”
I nodded, understanding where this conversation was heading. “You’re looking for donors.”
“I have a few leads, and we’ve had some success with local fundraisers, but it’s slow going.” She turned to face me, her expression direct. “I was wondering if you might be willing to connect me with some of your business contacts, people who might be interested in supporting this work.”
It was a simple request, one she could have made weeks ago, but I understood the significance of her asking now.
She was opening the door between my world of business and hers of service, creating a potential bridge between our two realities.
It wasn’t a reconciliation or even a direct step toward one, but it was cooperation, trust being extended in a practical way.