14. Nathan
14
NATHAN
The conversation I had with Candice last night is all I can think about as I clean out Ballantine’s stall. He’s turned out at the moment, making friends with some of the other horses, but I wish he was here. If only so that I could have someone to talk to.
I replay what happened last night, over and over again. What she said to me.
Her name is Sarah. Or do you not tend to ask them that?
I know she has no idea how deeply her words cut. I know she thinks I probably love being a player. I’m sure she thought the insult would roll off my shoulders, that I’d shrug and say, well, what does a name matter when I only need to know it for one night? The old Nate probably would have said that. And meant it.
But Sarah wasn’t interested anyway—and I’m trying to ignore how much that part hurts, too. How much it stings to realize that I may not be able to go back to my old ways after all. That I fucked up so badly that women all over America will be able to smell how much of a loser I am from a mile away. The fool’s hope I had of finding someone to be with long term dies completely.
Kerry was the first woman—and only, I might add—who I tried to be committed to. We met about a year ago. She rode at the barn I’d started boarding Ballantine at and we hit it off instantly. She didn’t seem to give a shit about how many buckles I had, and that was enough to make me fall for her. Hard. After a few months, I found out that she was cheating on me, and her response when I confronted her about it was to tell me she assumed I’d been cheating as well. I remember exactly what she said, too: “You thought we were committed? As if you’d ever settle down, Nate. I’m just keeping my options open, same as you.”
Almost every single one of the guys she cheated on me with was another reiner, which just ground dirt into the wound. It was as if she was telling me I wasn’t anything special. That guys like me are a dime a dozen, apparently.
The thing was, it never even crossed my mind to cheat on her. I might be a player, but I’m always honest about what my intentions are. With Kerry, I was honest, too. I told her she was my girlfriend, and I meant it.
I should have realized that because I’d branded myself a player, no woman was going to believe I was capable of commitment. And, given Sarah’s reaction to me, it’s safe to say they no longer want me for sex, either.
For some reason, though, it’s not Sarah’s reaction to me last night that sticks in my head. It’s Candice’s.
It’s the way her eyes blinked closed when I touched her hair. The way her lips parted, ever so slightly. The way she looked at me, like she actually fucking saw me, right down to my soul.
And, it’s the way she admitted that no man had ever made her feel good.
Never she said, and I felt those words like a challenge. A call to arms. A gauntlet thrown into the ring.
No man had ever made her feel good? Well, I bet I could.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I can’t be thinking about Beau’s sister that way. Not when he’s my best friend, and probably my only one at the moment, too. Not when Candice and I can barely stand one another. I set the rake down and start refilling Bally’s stall with shavings, trying my best to put everything from last night out of my mind.
“Hey,” a soft voice says.
It’s Candice.
“What?” I ask, not turning to face her, and continuing my work.
“I wanted to give you your flannel back,” she says, still speaking more softly than normal.
“Just leave it on the stall door,” I respond.
“Okay,” she says, and then goes silent. It takes all my willpower not to turn around and look at her but I’m still too shaken up from last night.
“Are we going to work with Brown Sugar later?” she ventures.
“If you think we should,” I say noncommittally.
I hear her make a noise somewhere in between a scoff and a snort. I whirl around and find her with her arms crossed, and her typical touch-me-and-die look on her face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“What? I didn’t say anything.” She examines her nails, not meeting my eyes. Which I guess I deserve, given that I just tried to carry on a conversation with her with my back turned.
“You scoffed,” I say.
“Well, you gave me a non-answer. Are we training later, or not? Is our deal still on?” Her voice wavers, like she’s really not sure what I might say.
“Why would it be off?”
She looks up from her hands and meets my eyes. Whenever Candice looks right at me, I have to remind myself of the simple facts I know to be true. One, she hates me. Two, I hate her right back. Three, she’s Beau’s sister. All of those things should counteract the zing of energy I feel between us, but they never do.
“Because of last night,” she says. “You seemed…mad. About something I said.”
“Yeah, I was mad,” I say.
“Explain it to me,” she says. “Explain why.” Her whiskey eyes are wide and searching, like she’s trying to read the answer from my face.
“You can’t just demand that people tell you what they’re feeling.”
“This is why I like horses,” she says, sighing. “They’re easy. I’m kind and patient with them, so they’re kind and patient with me back. But men…men, I don’t get.”
I wish, in that moment, that Candice and I didn’t hate each other as much as we do. Because what she just said about horses is what I’ve always believed. It’s the principal I use when working with Ballantine, and it’s why we normally win. In another life, Candice and I could have been friends.
She looks sad, almost, and vulnerable. Genuinely confused. By her own admission, she hasn’t had positive experiences with men, so I guess she’s predisposed to think the worst of us.
“I’m angry because you assumed I wouldn’t have asked Sarah her name,” I say. “I always ask women their names. And I treat them well.”
“Do you, though?” she asks.
“I treat them the same way they treat me. I don’t lie. I don’t ever promise something I can’t deliver on. I’m not a relationship man, Candice, but I never say that I am.”
“Well, Sarah is definitely a relationship woman,” Candice says. “She always has a boyfriend, and it’s always pretty serious. She won’t be single for long so if you want to?—”
“I don’t want to,” I say quietly. “And Sarah isn’t interested in me anyways.”
“Why not?” Candice cocks her head to the side, assessing me.
“Because I’m a loser. I lost my last event.” I leave it at that.
“Nathan,” Candice starts. “It’s okay not to win all the time. I’m sure you did your best. And there’s no horse as good as Ballantine.”
She sounds so earnest—like a mom telling her kid that she’s proud of them even though they lost their last game. It makes me smile. Not my flirtatious, charming smile. Not the one I use when I’m trying to get into a woman’s pants. But a real, genuine smile.
“Thanks, Candice. That’s real nice.”
The moment flickers between us, soft and gentle. It strikes me then that gaining Candice’s trust would be a thing to marvel at. That she’s rough around the edges and protective of herself, but soft at heart. That someone like her—someone who lost their mother and father when they were just a kid, and then their grandparents—would have to be.
“Should I go grab Brown Sugar from the paddock?” she asks, her voice hopeful.
“Yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”
Two hours later, the truce Candice and I seemed to have brokered is collapsing. Working with Brown Sugar was a mess because she still thinks that she needs to go, go, go as soon as we’re in the ring. Part of me wonders if she can sense the discord between Candice and I, and if that’s what upsets her.
Right now, Candice and I are trying to shoot content for the barn’s social media, and tensions are rising.
“I told you before, Nathan, I’m not going to be in any photos!” she says, crossing her arms and tapping her foot against the ground.
We’re standing in one of the paddocks out back, with Maggie, Brown Sugar, and Ballantine, who are becoming a tight knit trio. Their winter coats are coming in, and for the first time in a while, Bally and I aren’t competing anytime soon so he isn’t clipped.
“And I’m telling you that if you want your account to take off, you need to occasionally post your face,” I tell her, trying to keep calm.
“Why?” she demands, for what feels like the tenth time that hour.
“Look,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Here’s my profile. Have a scroll through it, and compare the posts with my face in them to those without.”
Candice scrunches up her nose, but takes my phone and does as I ask. After a few moments she says, “Nathan, this doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that women think you’re hot.”
“Candice, women don’t just think I’m hot. I am hot,” I say smugly, just to piss her off.
“Hotness is subjective,” she says, waving my phone in the air at me.
“Is it?” I ask. I take a step towards her and she doesn’t back off, but holds her ground. I catch her eye and hold her gaze. And then I hit her with my best smolder, the one that never fails me.
I watch as her pupils slowly dilate, as she becomes magnetized by my stare, falling headfirst into it.
“Completely subjective,” she breathes, her eyes locked onto mine.
And then something strange happens. Something shifts, and suddenly, I’m the one falling headfirst into her . I’m the one who can’t look away. Who doesn’t want to. Who wants to jump straight into those swirling brown pools and never come up for air.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I lean in and catch a whiff of Candice’s perfume. It’s subtle, and I’ve never noticed it before. It’s pine and citrus and some herb I can’t name. It’s earthy and clean, just like her.
“Nate,” Candice says quietly.
“Call me Nathan,” I say softly back. “I like it when you call me Nathan.” I always pretend to hate it, but I secretly like it. It makes me feel like the man I should be, rather than the perpetual child I feel like I’ve become.
“Okay,” she says, shifting slightly closer to me.
And then the moment is broken by Ballantine, who shoves his muzzle in between us. I didn’t even notice that he was coming over to us, because all I could see was Candice.
“Oh, hi Bally,” Candice says, reaching out and giving him a pat on his muzzle.
While Candice is busy lavishing my horse with attention, I snap a few photos of her. The lighting is perfect as the sun is starting to go down, and the mountains stretch for miles in the background.
“Look,” I say, showing her the phone when she notices what I’m doing. “This is exactly the type of thing you should be posting. Candid photos of you with the horses, to make it seem like you live an idyllic life out here in the wild.”
“But I don’t,” she says. “I mean, I love it here, don’t get me wrong. But there’s nothing idyllic about pinching pennies and working seven days a week.”
“You don’t have a day off?” I ask sharply.
“Not usually, no. There’s too much to do.”
“Why don’t we set up an online fundraiser for the barn and link it to your profile?” I ask. “You have enough followers now that I’m sure some of them will donate.”
And I definitely will. I’ll donate a few hundred dollars at a time so that Beau and Candice don’t suspect it’s me.
“Okay, sure,” she says. “We have a link to donate on the website, but it’s always crashing, and no one ever sees it anyways.”
“How did your grandparents make it work?” I ask her, because I’m a bit curious as to how Star Mountain has survived this long.
“They tapped into the community, and held a big annual fundraiser. Grammy did that part of the business, while Gramps took care of the horses.”
“And now both of those jobs are up to you,” I confirm.
“Yeah, basically. Beau helps, of course, but he has his vet work, and I’m grateful for the money that brings in.”
“It will get better,” I say. “If you grow the barn’s social media presence effectively, you’ll get plenty of donations. And hey, maybe an endorsement or two.” I crack a smile and Candice rolls her eyes.
But she says, “Fine. You can take more photos of me with the horses. But I get final approval of everything before it gets posted.”
“Yes, your highness,” I tell her with a wink.
“How should I pose?” she asks. “I’m not a model or anything.”
I refrain from telling her that she could easily be if she wanted to. She’s all long legs, shapely hips, and tousled hair.
“Just do what you’d normally do with the horse. Hang out with them,” I say.
“Shouldn’t I change into something a bit more feminine? I don’t think these old jeans are social media worthy.” She looks a bit nervous. It strikes me that the Viper, for all her sharp-tongued tenacity, has no idea how beautiful she is.
“Honey,” I say, the term of endearment slipping out of my mouth more easily than it should. “You look…you look just fine.” Fine is an understatement, but Candice will just accuse me of being a lecherous playboy if I tell her what I’m really thinking, which is that even in a pair of old jeans and beat-up boots she’s completely mouthwatering.
“Thanks,” she says, though she’s still frowning a bit.
She walks over to where Maggie is grazing, and sits down in the grass near her. After a few minutes, Maggie lays down right next to Candice and places her enormous head on Candice’s lap. Candice gives her a scratch between her ears, and then strokes her face. The mare closes her eyes in contentment, and I can tell it’s something they’ve done together a hundred times.
I take a few photos of them just like that, with Candice’s face in profile, her hair blowing behind her. The golden sunlight streaming from between the mountains hits her cheekbones, illuminating the planes of her face. Her gaze is fixed on the fields beyond and she looks at one with the horses and the landscape—like some sort of nymph or goddess of the wild. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat and take a few more of her, including a couple close up shots and a short video of her stroking Maggie’s face.
The mare was made for this type of thing. She’s a truly stunning horse, with large reddish brown splotches covering her coat and a mane that Candice lets grow long and free. She’s also in possession of the calmest disposition and she’s happy to just lay there and hang out with her human. I take a seat next to them and snap a photo of Candice’s boots in the grass.
“Why did you name her Maggie?” I ask Candice.
Candice looks startled by the question, like she’d forgotten I was there.
“Oh,” she says. “Her name is actually Queen Margaret. I had a thing for books about princesses and queens when I was a kid, and there was one about a queen named Margaret. Her story was my favorite. My mom gave it to me.” Her voice cracks around the word “mom” and my heart does, too. “But Queen Margaret is a mouthful so we shortened it,” she finishes.
“Have you ever shown her? She seems like she’d be good at it.”
“At what?” Candice asks.
“Reining,” I say. “She’s calm.”
“Of course you’d say that,” she says. “But no, I’ve never shown her. I’m a decent rider, but I’ve never been interested in competing. And Maggie would probably be good at it, but she’s needed here. She helps me train.”
“Why are you set against competition?” I ask.
“I’m not set against it,” she says sharply. “I’m suspicious of it. I’m suspicious of anything that forces a horse to do something they may not want to do.”
“I’ve never made Ballantine do any?—”
“Horses don’t care about winning, Nathan. People do,” she says, cutting me off. “And I find that they’ll push their horses endlessly just to get a ribbon or a buckle or whatever.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” I say quietly. “I was going to say that I’ve never pushed Ballantine like that. But I’ve seen people do shitty things to their horses. Seeing those people just makes me more determined than ever to do it right.” It’s the closest I’ve come to talking about what I saw the day of the competition, and even though it sets me on edge, it feels good to let some of it out.
“Well, good,” she says. “Maybe after I’m done with you, you’ll have a future career as a trainer.”
I laugh. “Maybe. I’m not sure anyone will want to work with me now. Not after the fight I got into.”
Candice is quiet for a moment. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Well,” I say. “That’s a conversation for another day, then. Because I’ve got to get going. My family’s having a big dinner tonight and I said I’d make the drive over to the ranch.”
Something on Candice’s face shifts as I say this, almost like she’s hurt. But about what, I can’t guess. For a second, I think she might be upset that I’m leaving but no—it can’t be that.
“Okay,” she says. “Have a nice time. And send me the photos you took. I’ll post some of them later.”
I blink. Oh. Right. She’s going to see the photos I took of her. I guess I won’t send her the five photos I took of her face in profile, illuminated by the sunlight. Those feel a bit too, uh, intimate, to say the least. I quickly send her the ones that are worth using and consider deleting the others. But something makes me hesitate, and I end up keeping them.
I tell myself I keep them because she’ll want to post them once she’s more comfortable with social media. No other reason aside from that.