Thirty-eight
Peter
Imoved the curry brush in a circular pattern across Tillie’s sweaty coat.
Every day last week, I groomed horses all afternoon during training hours and after guest trail rides.
At breakfast on Monday, Tag assigned me the task again which pleased me because I genuinely enjoyed it.
The tactile job gave my hands something to do without overwhelming my mind, and it gave me a chance to get to know the horses.
Now that it was Thursday, I’d officially met every horse on the ranch and had groomed most of them twice.
Some had really sweet dispositions—Lady May, Windy Foot, and Tillie, for example.
And I learned the ones I had to be more careful around—specifically the red mares, American Pie and Breakneck.
The only horse I hadn’t met yet was Scallywag.
Jesse and Tag were the only ones who could handle him.
Apparently, they’d bought him at an auction with the hope of getting a flank strap on him, but so far, no such luck.
Jesse thought he was a liability and wanted to sell, but Tag had a lot of patience for difficult horses.
He was convinced Scallywag would come around.
Overall, I was stunned by how calm, friendly, and fun pro-level bucking horses could be. Jesse had told me that wasn’t the case with all rodeo horses, but Tag’s were special in that way.
Tillie might have been my favorite. According to Tag, she was going on twenty-five years old.
Her vision was fading, and her teeth were wearing down.
When we did the morning feed rounds, we soaked her pellets and she didn’t get long hay like the rest of them because of the choking risk.
We had to chop anything that went into her stall.
Exercise time for Tillie was a saddled-up trot around the arena or an easy walk through the pastures.
By the time she came back for grooming today, she was tired.
Her exhales were slower, longer and she leaned against me when I brushed her—eager for her pampering.
Bea told me Tillie was Tag’s first horse, and he loved her like a family member.
The first time I groomed Tillie after her work-out, Tag brought out a bucket with a little bit of applesauce at the bottom.
She slurped it up while Tag braided her mane.
And I got the feeling that he just missed his horse and needed to come spend time with her.
When I finished picking her hooves, Tag took her back to her stall and stayed in there for a while.
But today the barn was quiet. It was just Tillie and I in the grooming wing, and soft voices filtered from the arena out back, where Tag and Jesse were working with the broncs and Harlan and Cooper were taking care of the riding schedule.
I ran my hands down the side of Tillie’s hind leg. Knowing the drill, she popped her hoof up and I swept my fingers around the inside of it, gently removing a little piece of gravel that had impacted there.
Able to groom on autopilot, my thoughts wandered to Sarah. I had called her every night for eleven days straight. And every time the phone rang exactly once then routed to her voice mail. I wasn’t sure why I bothered, since she wouldn’t get them, but I felt desperate to talk things out with her.
I figured I could’ve sent her an email but that wouldn’t be easy without my tech.
And I’d never used social media all that much.
I had an old Facebook account I could try to log into in order to send her a message, but I didn’t have Instagram which was Sarah’s app of choice.
I could ask Bea to send her a message for me, but for some reason, none of those ideas sat right with me.
Sarah blocked my phone calls. She didn’t want to talk. Trying to find ways to wiggle into her world before she was ready felt…disrespectful, maybe? And roping in a sibling to help me would just put pressure on her. That wouldn’t be fair.
So I just kept calling. For myself, mostly.
Over the last week, the list notifications had tapered off.
The last thing she did was get a lomi lomi massage.
The picture she linked in the proof column My Sight app described as a woman standing in front of a mirror with a black bra and a white turban.
I figured that probably meant Sarah had her hair in a towel on her head.
Maybe she showered at the spa and snapped a picture of herself in the mirror afterward.
The way I obsessed over that description and tried to piece together in my head what Sarah probably looked like was something akin to torture.
I wished I could’ve been there with her. The times we’d gotten a couples massage together, Sarah always felt sexy and desirable afterward. And I happily reaped the benefits.
I shook my head, calculating months. How long had it been since Sarah and I made love?
I couldn’t even remember. The times we had tried post-accident were terrible.
Arousal without sight was more challenging than I thought it would be and every sensation overwhelmed my exhausted nervous system.
And once, I accidentally hurt her—I misjudged where she was and put my elbow right on the fleshy part of her arm.
After that, enjoying her was impossible. I got trapped in my head.
But, to stay on par with the rest of my life, I shut down instead of rising to the challenge.
At rehab, we were encouraged not to rely too heavily on our imaginations—but to experience the world with the senses we had. Because that “helped us stay in the moment” and blah, blah, blah.
But I didn’t want to experience Sarah another way—I wanted to see her.
Some blind people couldn’t imagine things at all.
And part of me wished I was one from that camp, because the vision of Sarah with damp milky skin contrasted by a black lacy bra haunted my thoughts and made my muscles ache with desire.
I imagined the heady way she would respond if I yanked that towel off and hauled her up between me and the wall.
The way she’d arch into me when the cool drywall hit her bare back.
The way she’d open for me when I pressed my tongue into her perfect mouth. The way she’d moan when I—
“Peter?”
I jumped out of my thoughts.
“I’m gonna take over for you because Tag wants you out back.”
It was Rudy.
“Oh.” My shoulders fell with disappointment. I wasn’t sure what Tag wanted from me out there but I could practically guarantee I wouldn’t enjoy it half as much as grooming horses. “Why?”
“He wants you to help with the riding schedule.”
I almost choked. Me? Riding? Surely Rudy was mistaken.
I made my way down the barn corridor, my feet heavy and my mouth dry.
No part of me wanted to attempt riding a horse.
The anticipation had my heart beating in my throat.
Navigating the ranch day after day fried my nervous system until I grew accustomed to it.
I had just now settled into a daily routine; a comfortable cadence new duties would completely destroy.
I stepped out of the barn, blinking as the sunshine irritated my retinas, making my eyes water. I turned my backwards cap forward-facing, using the bill to block the sudden rays. Having led horses down to the arena multiple times before, I walked the familiar path until I heard Tag’s voice.
“Peter. Over here. On the catwalk.”
I veered left, following the fence toward the chute.
The catwalk, as the cowboys called it, was a raised platform behind the chutes where they attended the broncs, putting on the box dummies and the flank straps. Even though I hadn’t personally helped with the training, Harlan filled me in one day and explained how it all worked.
Stopping on the ground beside the platform, I looked up.
Tag grunted as he stood and made a scuffing sound with his hands, like palms brushing over denim. “You ready to ride?”
I croaked out. “What kind of ride?”
“I was thinkin’ you could help Coop with the schedule today so you aren’t trapped in that barn again all afternoon.”
“Oh, I don’t mind being trapped.” I sounded way too eager to remain in my comfort zone. “I like grooming the horses.”
“I know. And you’re doin’ a fine job of it.” He took a deep breath, his feet pounding on the ground below as he hopped down. “But”—he clapped me on the back as he walked by—“we want your help in the ring today.”
I stifled a snort.
He knew as well as I did that help was a generous term for a blind accountant running around a horse ranch. My presence was nothing but an obstacle.
“Come on.” A gate groaned as he opened it. “We already got Lady May at the post. You’re gonna saddle her up and take her for a spin.”
My feet dragged through the dust like concrete blocks. Ever since my world went dark, my mere five feet and ten inches made me feel too high off the ground sometimes. The idea of climbing up on a horse…
The day Sarah had planned a trail ride for us, I tried to tell her I was afraid, but she blew me off. “Oh, Peter. You’ll be fine, I promise.”
Yet my skyrocketing pulse and rapidly sweating skin made me feel anything but fine.
I followed the sound of Tag’s boots in the dust until we reached the opposite side of the fence. He murmured, “Hey there, Lady,” as his hand gently patted her. He turned to me. “She’s a buckin’ horse, but she’s getting old. Retirement is just around the corner.”
“She won’t try to buck me off?”
Tag chuckled. “Not at all.” He moved past me a few steps. “Alright, Peter. I got a saddle over here on a saw horse.”
I stepped up to it, reaching until my fingers brushed leather, warm from the sun.
“I’m gonna walk you through the parts of the saddle.”
Swallowing, I nodded.
For the next ten minutes, Tag taught the saddle’s anatomy.
The cantle, horn, back housing, pommel, strap, cinch, billet, fender, and on and on.
My fingers slipped over each part, and I noted little designs pressed into the leather.
I wondered what they looked like but didn’t ask.
Then Tag gave me a pop quiz, which I passed.