11. Lyla
Lyla
“Do you have one of those mounting blocks?” I ask Beck, looking up at the horse I’m supposed to just jump onto without any hesitation.
It should be easy. Foot in the stirrup, grab hold of the saddle horn and haul myself up. Except every time I lift my foot to stick my foot in the iron, Willow takes a step sideways and I stumble.
Beck is already seated on Bandit’s back, the shiny black horse and him regarding me like they’re getting antsy.
“We don’t offer kids pony rides here, so no,” Beck says, his voice gruff and impatient. He probably would have already been halfway to the other side of the property by now if it wasn’t for me.
I let out an exasperated groan. “Then tell your horse to stop moving every time I try to mount her.”
“Oh, so you’re a goat whisperer but not a horse whisperer?” Beck’s mouth tilts upward under his dark moustache, and I scowl back at him.
“Clearly not this horse.”
“Willow does what she wants, when she wants. I’ve learned to let her be who she wants to be.”
“You’re an ass,” I mutter under my breath.
“Horses don’t respond kindly to that attitude,” Beck says. “They respond better when you’re calm. Cool and collected. But I know that’s not your strong suit.”
My heart sinks in my chest at the confirmation of what I assumed all along.
Beck has never respected how emotional I can be, how I wear my heart on my sleeve.
But I won’t let him see how his comment affects me.
Any reaction would cement his opinion of me.
I opt instead to ignore it, as I try one more time to fix my foot on the stirrup.
Willow takes another abrupt step forward, making me lose my balance and sending me flailing backward. Turns out Beck’s horse is as much of an asshole as he is.
I collect myself and let out a huff of breath through pursed lips, and tie my hair back in a low ponytail. I point an index finger toward Willow. “This is it. I’m giving you one more chance and then we’re through.”
Here we go. Foot in the stirrup, grip the saddle horn, push up.
Strong hands grip my waist from behind, lifting me clean off the ground and supporting my weight as I haul myself up.
My sweatshirt slides up my waist as I reach up to the saddle, allowing Beck’s calloused fingers to graze over the exposed skin above the waistband of my leggings. The feeling of them sends a spark of electricity through my core, goosebumps blooming out over my skin from where they make contact.
As soon as I throw my leg over Willow’s hind quarters, Beck pulls his hands back as if I’ve burned him, and clears his throat.
“I could have done it myself,” I say, but we both know we would have been here until tomorrow morning.
He nods curtly, refusing to make eye contact as he walks back over to Bandit and mounts the horse with ease. Bandit has to be at least three hands taller than Willow, but Beck’s strong forearms ripple as he pulls himself into the saddle.
He clicks his tongue, and tugs the reins over Bandit’s neck, turning him around and walking him away from the barn toward the pasture. I attempt to do the same with Willow, but she barely budges.
I give her sides a squeeze with my thighs. Nothing.
“Come on, Willow. Let’s go,” I urge.
Willow nickers and drops her head, yanking my hands down as she pulls on the reins.
“If you’re nice to me today, I’ll bring you cookies later.” I’m not above bribery, and I don’t know much about horses, but I figure animals are mostly the same, and they all respond to cookies.
I don’t want Beck to think I have no clue what I’m doing. I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a kid and I definitely used a mounting block then, but he doesn’t need to know that. It doesn’t exactly invoke confidence in me as a consultant for the ranch if I can’t even ride a horse.
To my relief, Willow starts walking at the mention of cookies, and picks up a decent pace, enough to almost catch up to Beck and Bandit.
Cows graze happily in the fields as we move through the first pasture. Willow plods along, her head low and her tail flicking contentedly behind her. I let my shoulders drop, and close my eyes, feeling the warm sun on my face.
Being out here, with the vast expanse of land around us, the mountains on the horizon, something in me loosens, the tension from the last few weeks easing.
It’s like the earth is reminding me that my problems are small.
Not that they don’t matter, but that in the grand scheme of things, they’re but a blip in time.
I choose not to ruin the mood by looking over toward the neighbouring property where Austin and I grew up. Even ignoring it, the very presence of that yellow farm house on the hill causes an ache to radiate behind my sternum.
I was so lost coming back to Sage Valley, untethered, and I wish I could go back there, feel that familiar green grass between my toes, inhale the smell of the lilac bush my mother grew next to the back porch. Maybe then I’d feel less out of control, I’d have something here to ground me.
“What a beautiful day,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
“Mhm,” Beck agrees without saying a word.
This is supposed to be my tour of the property, my orientation. Of course, I’m not completely unfamiliar with the land, having grown up here and all. A working cattle ranch on the other hand? That’s a whole new ball game for me.
And Beck hasn’t given me anything to work with yet. Frustration and impatience rise in my throat, threatening me with snarky words they want to blurt out.
I roll my shoulders back and look off to the horizon, letting the sea of long green grass and clear blue sky calm me again. I’ve been trying to do that more and more these days. Not saying every single thought that springs to mind. Trying to hold back, bite my tongue. Behave.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask.
“We’re going to have a look at the fences on the south perimeter,” Beck says. “Some of the cattle broke through the other night, and I need to assess the damage. See if it’s something I can fix myself or if I’ll need to bring someone in.”
“How much will that cost?”
Beck shakes his head, his mouth forming a tight line. “Don’t know yet. But too much, is all I can say.”
I nod, and in my periphery, I see Beck looking over me, I can feel him watching me.
“Nothing snarky to say? Nothing to chastise me about the way I’ve run the business?” He asks, his eyes still searching me, like he’s trying to get me to bite. But I won’t. I’ve been making solid progress today with my snark.
Okay, okay. I had my moment in the kitchen earlier, but I said I’ve been making progress, I’m not perfect.
“Nope,” I answer. “I’m trying to be professional here, Bossman. I have a job to do, remember? I’m not exactly in a position to be running my mouth. It tends to get me in trouble these days.”
“Fair enough,” Beck says, turning back to look ahead of him. “But you know this doesn’t have to be strictly professional. We’ve known each other a long time, Lyla.”
“Okay,” I say. He does have a point, although I wouldn’t say he’s made things comfortable between us. He’s been nothing but cold and dismissive. But if he wants to get more personal, I can get personal. “I met your girlfriend yesterday.”
I catch the look of surprise that flashes across his features.
“My girlfriend?” His question makes him sound genuinely confused. I knew he was a bit of a playboy in high school, but I thought he’d have grown up enough to remember that he has a girlfriend.
“Tessa?” It comes out with more judgement than I anticipate. So much for progress.
“Oh, Tessa.”
I roll my eyes, and luckily Willow has fallen a few steps behind Bandit now, so he doesn’t see it.
“She’s nice. And a smokeshow,” I say, and I get a strange twinge in my gut. Almost like jealousy. But I’m not jealous of whoever dates Beck. He can’t even remember who he’s dating, clearly.
“You sound surprised,” he says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck like this conversation is making him uncomfortable.
“No. I mean, okay yeah I guess I am a bit surprised,” I admit. “You don’t strike me as a guy who would ever have…feelings.”
The back of him reveals nothing, only his steady, stoic verging on unresponsive demeanor.
He’s like a giant oak tree, immoveable, unshakeable.
But there’s something about his infuriating energy that also feels grounding, like I want to sit at the base of the tree, and rest in the shade of its foliage.
“Just because I don’t talk about my feelings doesn’t mean I don’t have them,” he says, his voice low and almost vulnerable. There’s something soft behind his tone, something almost tender. “I process them differently than you do.”
I want to ask how Beck knows how I process my emotions. Over the years, there were only a handful of times I ever let him into my world. I can count them all on one hand.
Once, when I chased him and Austin on my bike and fell, skinning my knee. That was the first time I ever cried in front of him. Austin ran back home to get Mom and Beck stayed behind with me, making sure I was ok. That calming, grounding presence.
The second time he saw me cry was after I got dumped at a high school party. I was a blubbering mess, and I was drunk. When I finally got a hold of Austin, he was equally as drunk at a different party, so he called Beck.
And Beck came, even though he seemed displeased with the whole turn of events. We sat in the car in silence the whole way home, his hand gripping the top of the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
Even back then, I couldn’t figure out this enigma of a man. He’s still the same, offering me little moments of support and kindness one moment, and then slamming down steel walls around himself the next.
“And how do you process them?” I ask. “Are you a punch a hole in a wall kind of guy, or do you prefer a cry in your car to R.E.M?”
“Neither.”
Okay, we’re really making some headway on the personal relationship front here.
“I spend time out here, to think. I ride until I can’t ride anymore, until it gets dark out or both.”