Eleven - Hand Delivered
ELEVEN
HAND DELIVERED
“YOU’RE PERFECTLY FINE ,” I tell Ruin for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Probably just stepped on a rock funny. Don’t be so dramatic.”
Ruin blinks softly at me and sighs in a completely non-dramatic way. Cheeky bastard.
“It’s not a tendon, for sure. Right?” I nod at him, wishing he’d nod back so I can stop being such a baby about the slightest change in his movement.
“You wouldn’t even be standing if it was a burst ligament,” I tell myself.
We weren’t doing anything all that hard, just some low grid work to practice his collection.
But horses this powerful... They can hurt themselves without even trying. “Shit, what if it’s navicular? I forbid you to retire!”
He licks and chews like he doesn’t give a damn about my mental health.
“Do you enjoy giving me headaches?” I shake my head at him, frown sternly, so he knows I’m not playing games. “I swear to God, if the vet tech says this is just a stone bruise, you’re grounded for a year, mister. No apples.”
He snorts at me. Yeah, he knows I’m bluffing. No apples… I’m not a monster.
Footsteps approach and take a deep breath to shake off the demented horse parent vibe. It’s bad enough that I actually called for a checkup over something this minor, as if it’s an actual emergency.
But better safe than sorry. I pet Ruin’s muzzle, bonk my head with his.
When the boots stop at the stall door, I glance up, but it’s not some kid in scrubs standing at the stall door. “Rey?”
“Morning, Fancy Pants,” she says with a friendly smirk, opening the stall door.
“Heard my favorite problem child might be having issues.” She unslings the heavy-looking vet bag from her shoulder, hooking it on the stall’s corner post. Then gets the stethoscope sticking out from a vest pocket, drapes it over her neck.
Didn’t think she’d be the one coming over—her hours are just as crazy as Eli’s, if not more. Super glad it’s her, though. She’ll tell me the horrible truth or call me out on my paranoia. I’m fine with either, just can’t stand the not knowing.
“Right,” I say, sliding over to Ruin’s left hind, tapping it gently before giving her space to work. “This one wasn’t extending fully in the trot. Caught it during cool-down yesterday, so we walked it out longer than usual. Nothing dramatic, and he did seem fine this morning, but—”
“But you ain’t taking chances,” she finishes, already crouching to feel his leg with the back of her hand, hock to pastern. “Good instinct. Could be nothing, could be the start of something. Better to know.”
That alone takes some weight off my shoulders. Even if this minor shit is actually something, this is the best place for Ruin to be so we can fix it. And if it’s not fixable, then… I don’t kn ow. But allowing this tightness in my chest to spill over into actual panic isn’t helpful.
Flipping burgers may not even be that bad. It’s honest work, right?
My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my jeans.
“So,” Rey says without looking up, squeezing down his cannon bone. “How’s the glamorous life of horseshit and the authentic ranch experience you were so keen on?”
“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle, crossing my arms and letting myself lean back against the wall. “Mucking stalls and picking hooves is the new gym hype, didn’t you know? Livin’ it out, elderly-style, ready for bed at eight-thirty.”
Rey snorts loudly, which I came to know as her equivalent of a full belly laugh. “From prima donna to stable hand, cold turkey. Damn impressive, gotta say.”
I scoff, pushing off the wall. “I was not a prima donna.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, damn her. “Oh, Rey,” she mocks. “I simply must be shown the truth. Oh no, the help will not wash my precious garments. However shall I operate the washing contraption?”
I bite down my smile before she feels validated, and feign an itch on my lips to cover it. Fuck, did she really need to bring that up? Fine, I’d never once used a washing machine before I came here, so I had… let’s call it an adjustment period . Sue me.
“Being sheltered is not the same as being a prima donna,” I point out. “The cleaning lady was nice enough to teach me. Unlike you. You’re the prima donna of Riverlight.”
“You’re right,” she says with a grin matching my own. “I accept the title. If anyone’s talented ‘n obnoxiously temperamental ‘round here, it’s gonna be me.”
“I second that.”
“Don’t let it get to your head, though. Just ‘cause you’re finally sleeping with the boss don’t mean ya get any special treatment.”
My spine freezes, breaths too.
Sleeping…with the boss?
She knows?
Our first time together was a week ago. And then every night after that, plus a quickie between the thighs, out in the woods—but who’s counting? Oh, and in the shower that time. Definitely not in the tack room, though. We’re not animals.
…
Blow jobs don’t count.
“He…” I clear my throat, scanning the other stalls. It’s just us here. “He told you?”
“Course not. Known Eli since before his first baby teeth were gone, ya think I wouldn’t notice a pep in his step?” She taps Ruin’s leg before lifting his heavy hoof and resting it on her thigh. “Watch his face.”
I nod and move closer to Ruin’s head to catch any reaction while she presses her thumbs into his sole. There were no dark spots when I cleaned it earlier, so hopefully it’s fine.
“Thanks for the confirmation, though,” she goes on. “I owe Chuck ‘n Clarisse.”
“You three bet actual money that we ended up fucking?”
“Oh, since day one. Day two, we got a chart for the office. You watching his face?”
“Yes!” I wasn’t, but I am now. “What chart? Who’s we ?”
“Whole gang. Most already busted, though. Majority was at the one-month mark. You guys took your sweet time.”
“Wait.” I lift my hand, press my eyes shut because this shit is too much.
Then snap them open again—watching his face, watching his face.
“So you’re saying that…since I first set foot in this place, everyone in this damn ranch thought Eli and I would hook up.
So you started a betting pool. And made a chart. ”
“No one thought anything. It was a sure deal. You guys ain’t that smooth.” She gets up, bringing the hoof along. With Ruin’s leg folded, she sets the fetlock joint against her thigh and holds it there. “Even Momma Navarro knows.”
“What?!” I shriek. “How?”
She lets out a little grunt, and I focus on what’s important, which is letting her work. Holding that position on a horse this big is no joke.
After a full, excruciating minute of counting my own heartbeats—one-eleven—Rey lets Ruin’s leg down gently, hoof to the dirt. “Nah, I lied. You’re just too easy to rattle.”
“So…there’s no bet going?”
“No, the chart is real. It’s behind the door in the office.” She pats her cargo pants clean. “Lied about Momma Navarro. Though she’s as shrewd as they come, so… One look at Eli, she’d know.”
“He’s that different?” More relaxed, maybe. I’m more relaxed too, and after sleeping for real four nights straight, I feel both weightless and more solid than ever. Like no wind could tip me over.
“Ya wouldn’t see it,” she says, bypassing me and Ruin and opening the stall door. “Not with all the sunshine hearts ‘n rainbow sparkles blocking your view. But to the rest of us, yeah, it’s pretty obvious.” She steps out, nudges her head so I follow. “Bring him out. Trot him up the aisle and back.”
With a nod, I do as she says, taking Ruin’s lead and guiding him out, then along the stalls.
“You’re different too,” she adds when we’re a few steps away. “Ya see that, right?”
I glance over my shoulder at her. Then keep going, all the way to the barn door at the end of the aisle.
Am I, really? Being different implies much more than some days of good sleep and relaxation .
I feel…good, objectively. Of course I do, I woke up this morning in Eli’s arms—more than good, I feel fucking invincible. I kissed him awake with a peck on the nose, and he smiled before opening his eyes, all gooey and sweet. If that’s not the meaning of life, what the fuck is it, then?
Is that what’s different? That I found what every other human on earth, knowingly or not, wishes they had?
Then why doesn’t it feel…more? More life-changing, more stabilizing? It should, right?
Why is there a “but” in the back of my mind?
“So?” Rey asks as Ruin and I get closer again. “What do ya think?”
“His trot is normal. Nothing felt—”
“Yeah, no, he’s clear. Probably just took a bad step yesterday.” She pats Ruin’s neck, then steps inside the stall again, hoists her vet kit back over her shoulder. “Meant this betting pool ‘n everyone knowing. What do ya think?”
Oh, uh… I’m not sure. Can’t even remember how I’d be meant to act if this was anywhere else, if we were out there in the world. I’d be freaking out, for sure, maybe just hanging low while PR spun any rumors back into brand, back to sleek, focused, perfect.
But I’m safe here. This is hallowed ground—from day one, since moment zero, it’s how it felt in my bones.
This is Riverlight, the place where horses go to heal.
And where people can’t help but do the same.
“You didn’t win the pool, so I’m golden,” I tell her, cracking a snotty smirk at her gasp. The sound alone is a trophy. “A prima donna winning a bet? You’d be fucking unbearable.”
I can’t beat her at a smirk-off, though. So when she puts me back in my place with her own, I tone it down to a smile and wait for her jab to hit.
Except it never comes. Worse than that, she does the same— just a smile, a lift so soft at the corners of her lips, it doesn’t even look like her. “Right answer, Fancy Pants.” Even her voice is too soft. Wait—is she having a stroke?
She reaches into one of her vest pockets, slips out a bright blue envelope.
I frown, reaching for it on instinct. “What’s this?”
“Fan mail. Hand delivered.”
I frown harder at the thing, dangling it from a corner like it’s icky or maybe explosive. “That’s impossible. We didn’t divulge anything to the public. No one knows I’m here.”
“Well, someone does.” Rey shrugs. “Has your name on it.”
I flip the envelope, and sure enough, “Mr. Cassian Vale” is written in neat, stocky letters.
With a glance at Rey, I guide Ruin back into his stall, eyes fixated on my name.
It’s been forever since I’ve actually gotten any fan mail in my own hands—PR takes care of everything.
I just autograph a few photos from time to time, to be attached to the template letter for a few select fans.
Answering every letter would make me look too approachable, not on brand for someone who sells exclusivity, who is always on top, steps ahead of anyone else.
That’s not why I’m nervous, though, not why there’s something heavy materializing at the pit of my stomach.
How does a fan know I’m here? PR wouldn’t have slipped.
Who slipped?
After taking off Ruin’s halter, I pat his neck and let him hit the hay net, stepping out of the stall again. The lock clicks in place, and I’m still looking at the letters holding my name, analyzing each pen stroke for any hidden secrets.
“Ain’t ya opening it?” Rey asks.
I don’t look up at her. Don’t even nod, just stick a finger beneath the flap and tug it open. It tears off without an itch. Carefully, I slip out the contents, handing Rey the envelope .
It’s construction paper, folded in four. I unfold it.
Then…
Whoa.
It’s not a letter, but a drawing. A horse standing between two blocky figures, one small, one tall. Arrows point to each of the three, labeled in the same neat handwriting from the envelope.
Cassian Vale for the tallest. Thunderbolt in the middle, the horse. And the shortest…
Zane.
And beneath the drawing, in curly crayon letters, “Thank you for being kind. You’re the best!”
Kind.
Thank you…for being…
“Kind, huh?” Rey’s right over my shoulder. When did she move? “What did ya do?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
“Don’t look like nothing.”
“Barely said anything to him.” The words come out quietly. My eyes are set on the drawing, burning from how long they haven’t blinked.
My fingertips trace every letter, over the tiny ridges where the crayon was pressed too hard. I can imagine him sitting at the kitchen table, tongue stuck out in concentration as he carefully wrote each word, as he colored both our hair with the same pale yellow.
Did he get frustrated at each stroke of color that got out the boundaries—right here on his red shirt, and there in my blue jeans? Did he curse at how big Thunderbolt’s body was to cover in just brown?
Or did he roll with the mistakes, found the process relaxing in its meaning? In how he wanted it to mean to me when I got it? I smile at the little artsy swirls on the horse’s curly mane. At the care he put into my eyes, painting them gray, not light blue like most people think.
Hand delivered. His parents must have driven him here. An hour away from the nearest town.
It’s been a month and a half since that day. Maybe it was yesterday, for him.
Slowly, gently, I fold it along the original creases. The paper feels incredibly more delicate than when I pulled it out, like it’s about to dissolve, or catch fire and crumble to ashes. Then I keep looking at it. At the folded paper in my hands.
And I wonder. If I died right now, would this piece of paper tell my story? Would people see this uninspired drawing from a kid who failed but didn’t quit, see my name over this tall figure with golden hair and metal eyes, and say, “Nah, that can’t be him. Cassian Vale wasn’t kind.”
Or is this proof? That at least this one time, with this one kid… I was. That I am. That I can be.
If only with this one kid. This one time when no one was watching.
Human.
Can’t I?
“Softness suits ya,” Rey says, quiet like still water, cruel like the pebble she tossed into it. “Whether ya like it or not.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone with this. With a child’s gratitude and the weight of the world—the one outside Riverlight.
Where kindness doesn’t fit me, where I don’t crouch to talk to kids—can’t. Where there’s a shiny tin mask over my flesh.
Where I’d be better off having no flesh at all.
Out there. Where I belong.