Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEN
I n three and a half months of dating Jason, I’ve never seen him have a bad day.
Now, I realize the likelihood of a near-hundred-day streak of good days is probably a little far-fetched. Still, he’s never worn anything darker than that easy smile he gives so freely, aside from the occasional nerves leading up to a big game. I guess I just assumed it was part of the magic of his composition: gorgeous eyes and unwavering charm, a dynamite athleticism that will probably take him pro someday, and an attitude so positive it’s hard to feel anything but good standing next to him.
His general optimism toward life was part of the reason I fell for him so quickly in the first place. It began to chip away at my internal belief that if I don’t show up to life with anything but my best, the good things around me will fall apart. I wouldn’t call myself a pessimist, per se, but I have learned to expect the worst.
If I strive for perfection, maybe I can avoid the possibility of failure. I believe it’s why I made the varsity cheer squad as a freshman and why my grade-point average starts with a four—I work really really hard for it all. But when I started spending more time with Jason, I could feel the relief of his easier frame of mind, and I couldn’t help myself from leaning into it.
Today, though, his typical zest for life is nowhere to be found.
Because today, Jason is pissed .
I know he’s blaming himself for last night’s loss against Mayfield; in the last minute of the game, he threw an interception that took the Matadors all the way to their endzone, earning them a narrow win by just three points. It broke the Mustangs’ perfect record and might affect the opinions of the scouts who’ve been spotted at recent games. Coach Andersen turned an angry shade of red, spit flying from his mouth as he yelled at Jason on the sidelines while the stands stood quiet, their disappointment clear.
I can’t imagine holding the weight of expectation from every person in this town, an expectation to win . The devastation on Jason’s face was completely new territory for me, seeing those handsome features that normally spark butterflies in my stomach rearrange themselves into something different altogether. It’s the look he still wears today, except now it’s also teeming with fury.
I hear the screen door slam from the front porch of the ranch house and turn to find the matriarch of the Bennett family. Her hand is propped over her brow as she looks down to find Wells and me carefully watching Jason shoot cannons through the tire swing. We’re all silent, and I wonder if she can feel the tension roiling between us. “You kids want some lemonade?” she calls out.
Wells flicks his gaze to her before focusing back on his best friend, a small frown playing on his lips. “Sounds good, Mom,” he calls back, though he seems unsure. I don’t blame him, but it strikes me that even Wells is perplexed by Jason’s mood.
Mrs. Bennett turns back to the house, her blue button-down flowing back from her shoulders before she disappears inside. It’s a breezy late November day, breezier out here on the ranch than it was in town this morning. Wells is trying to make good on his agreement to teach me to ride a horse, having made plans with Jason and me earlier this week to spend our Saturday here, but now that we are, I feel silly about the whole thing.
It’s not that I don’t want to learn to ride—I do. But with Jason’s foul mood and Wells’s growing concern about it, I can’t help but feel like this is all a major inconvenience. I watch the wind tear through Jason’s shirt as he winds his arm back to launch a football through the tire swing again, and my regret presses down harder. “We don’t have to do this,” I say quietly, hoping I might still be able to save everyone from the burden I’m being.
Jason doesn’t even glance my way. But Wells does. “What do you mean?”
I throw a pointed look to Jason as if to say, You know exactly what I mean . But I answer honestly, “The riding lesson.”
Wells sighs, eyeing Jason who retrieves the ball he just threw for probably the hundredth time. “Jay,” he says simply.
Jason glares at him. “What?”
They stare at each other, some silent conversation streaming between them. I look down at my dirty white Converse, a quiet shame bubbling through me. I never should have asked for this.
Whatever passes between the boys must not go the way Wells hoped, because soon Jason’s firing another pass through the tire swing, the tip of the ball slamming into the edge of the black rubber with a loud smack. He groans, cursing under his breath as he stalks over to pick it back up again. Another surge of dread courses through me, and just as I’m about to offer up another out for all of us, I realize Wells is watching me. “Let’s just . . . let him stew in his feelings for a bit. We can get you on a horse.”
I consider it. “Are you sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” His frown deepens. I can’t help but look back at Jason, but Wells keeps going. “Layla, you want to ride a horse. And I said I’d help you do it. Plain and simple.”
His words are an arrow piercing through my cloud of doubt. The screen door slams again, and we turn to find Mrs. Bennett with a tray in her hands. “I’m going to leave this right here,” she hollers as she sets it down on a small table pushed up against the house, flanked by two rocking chairs. I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Bennett sitting in them on quiet mornings, warm mugs of coffee in hand. But truthfully, I’m not sure they get much use.
I’ve seen Mrs. Bennett a handful of times during my visits to the ranch, but she seems to keep her focus inside the house rather than outside of it. I’ve still never seen Mr. Bennett in the flesh, but I do hear him yelling from a second-story window from time to time. It’s the five Bennett boys who actively run the ranch, Brooks and Kasey taking on the biggest roles in the operation. There’s also a farrier named Hank who’s here once a week to shoe the horses and a vet who comes around about as much to check up on them.
Rhett takes the lead on breaking the wild mustangs that are brought in. Wells helps when he can, but with school and football, he doesn’t have as much time to dedicate to it. Sawyer has been away at college all semester but he got home last week for winter break.
Of all the Bennett kids, Sawyer is the most unlike the others with his thick-rimmed glasses and pressed button-down shirts. I heard Wells tell Jason once that his passions swing toward the conservation side of the business rather than in actual cowboying. He’s also the first in the family to ever go to college.
“Thanks, Mom,” Wells shouts, then says to me, “You ready? Let’s ride first, and we can have some lemonade after.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Jason doesn’t bat an eye as I move to follow Wells toward the barn that sits about a hundred yards away from the main house. He just keeps hurling that damn football through the tire over and over again, punishing himself for the mistake he made last night. I wish there was something I could do to fix it, but I think it’s something he needs to work through on his own because not even Wells is having any luck.
Instead, I focus on readying myself to get on a horse, falling into step beside Wells with a swirling mix of eagerness and trepidation stammering in my chest. Inside the barn, he leads me to a stall where a beautiful golden horse with a white mane stands tall, and not for the first time I’m struck by how big horses are. “This,” Wells says, “is Champ. He’s going to be yours today.”
“Champ,” I recite as I watch the horse greet Wells with an affectionate sniff over the top of the stall door. “Is he friendly?”
Wells smirks. “You think I’d put you on one that’s not?”
I shrug. “For all I know, this is your way of getting rid of me forever.”
His smirk slips as he fastens his gaze on me. “Why would I want to get rid of you?”
“I’m not exactly sure you like me, Wells,” I say honestly. We may have developed a bit of a truce over the last few months, but I still think he’d rather I wasn’t around so much. Sometimes I feel like I’m encroaching on his and Jason’s “guy time,” but when I’ve brought it up to Jason, he assures me I’m not.
“I do,” Wells counters, looking back at Champ with a stormy expression. But it’s there and gone in a flash. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way, but I like you just fine.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a little bamboozled. “Okay.”
His gaze moves past me to the barn door. “We’ll get Champ out of the barn and I’ll show you how to saddle him. You can just watch for now—today’s lesson will be getting you comfortable in the saddle.”
I nod, hiding my surprise that today sounds like only the first lesson in what might be many more. I thought I would maybe ride around the pasture, and that would be it.
He opens the door to the stall and slips a halter on Champ before leading him out. I follow behind, captivated by the way his muscles move and glide with each step. It’s not until Wells is loosely wrapping the lead around a post outside of the barn that I ask, “Is he a workhorse?”
Wells flashes a smile. “He was a racehorse—one of the best Texas has ever seen.”
“But not anymore?”
He shakes his head as he picks up a brush and gently glides it over Champ’s hide. “No, he retired just before his tenth birthday. He was sent to a sanctuary in Tennessee, but they shut down, so he ended up here about five years ago. Brooks wanted to keep him—he’s a good horse, and he helps us work some of the others.”
My eyes snag on his long mane. “He won’t be too fast with me, will he?”
Another smile tugs at Wells’s mouth. “No. I promise he’ll be gentle.” He finishes brushing Champ’s beautiful golden back. “In the spirit of the lesson: I brushed him to make sure his coat is free from any dirt from his ride yesterday when Kasey took him out into the pasture. We want to make sure the saddle isn’t uncomfortable for him now.” I nod, intent on absorbing everything. “This”—he holds up what looks like a folded blanket—“is a saddle pad. It eases the strain from the saddle.” He lays it over Champ’s back, the blue fabric fraying along the edges from use.
“Does the saddle hurt him?” I ask.
“No,” Wells answers. “Not if you put it on right.” I watch as he straightens the pad until it rests evenly over Champ’s spine, just behind his shoulders. And then he hoists the saddle up and over, positioning it over the pad. He walks me through fastening all of the straps and belts that hold the saddle in place, and then he picks up a small pile of leather straps. “This is the bridle. It goes over his face.”
My brows bunch together. “What does that do?”
“It’s what the reins connect to. It’s how you communicate with the horse while you’re riding. When you make subtle commands through the reins, the horse will feel it with this and know to adjust. ”
I try to imagine what it would be like to be communicated with through some bizarre leather face mask. “It doesn’t hurt?”
He shakes his head. “Not if you know what you’re doing.”
“Promise?”
Wells looks at me for a long moment. And then he dips his head once. “I promise, Layla. You’re not going to hurt him, I’ll make sure of it.”
It eases my mind enough that, as soon as Champ is ready and inside of the closest corral, I don’t hesitate to climb up into his saddle. Wells gives me a boost, shooting me a small smirk as he looks at the Converse I’m wearing. “You’re going to ruin these out here, you know. If you’re going to learn to ride, you’ll need some decent shitkickers.”
I shrug. “They’re all I have.”
“Hm,” he hums as he takes a step back. “Put your feet in the stirrups.” He points at the wide loop that hangs alongside Champ’s belly. I do as he instructs and reach for the reins to ready myself for whatever comes next. “Wait.” He holds a hand up. “You don’t need those.”
I look down at the reins in my hands, at the contrast of the dark brown leather against my skin. They’re so worn with use that they’re softer than I expected. “I don’t?”
“Nope,” he confirms. His eyes trail across Champ’s back, as if taking in the size of the animal he’s just put me on. “The reins are only a part of how you communicate. A horse can feel a fly land on his back . . . he can feel everything that you feel. Every emotion, every fear. You want him to trust you just as much as you want to trust him, so you need to show him that you do.” He looks up at me, eyes squinting in the sun beneath that dirty backward hat. “No reins. ”
“So what do I do?”
He smiles as he looks down at the dark boots on his feet. It’s a different smile from any others I’ve seen from him—it lacks the usual cockiness that he wears so well. When his face turns back up toward the sun, it strikes me how handsome he is. “Trust him, sunshine.”
I look down at Champ’s long neck, at his bright mane that lifts lazily with the breeze, and feel something warm bloom through me. I can’t explain it, but for as much as I was trying to get out of all of this only a few minutes ago, there’s a sudden feeling of rightness that this is all. . . inevitable. I nod, my gaze flitting back to Wells, realizing how much I trust him with this. “Okay.”
Wells gently takes the reins from my hands and clicks his tongue at Champ, and before I know it we’re moving. Champ’s shoulders shift beneath the front of the saddle as Wells leads us to the center of the corral. “Okay,” he says quietly, a whisper of that smile still playing on his lips. He reaches to wrap the reins once around the saddle’s pommel, and he glides his hand affectionately down the side of Champ’s belly before taking a step back from us. “It’s between you two now. Remember: he can feel what you’re feeling. Trust him.”
Champ must understand the invitation because as soon as the words leave Wells’s mouth, he takes off. The lurch forward takes me by surprise and I nearly fold backward at the waist, but I quickly recover and somehow keep my panic at bay. Champ eases into a slow trot, making his way toward the edge of the corral before shifting to the left to move alongside it.
“Relax, Layla,” Wells calls from where he stands. I sneak a look back at him and find his gaze sharp and focused. I take a deep breath and do what I can to lessen some of the tension in my back and legs, knowing that I need to stay calm for this to work.
Trust him.
I close my eyes, letting instinct take over as my body sinks into each step Champ takes. I realize I do trust him. I’m not scared. Even though it’s my first time being on a horse, I know Wells is watching me. I’m safe .
Champ picks up speed, not quite running but moving quicker as he hugs the fence line of the corral. I open my eyes again to see that we’re on the opposite end, effortlessly coasting along the perimeter.
I can’t help but look over my shoulder at Wells, noting the obvious approval in his eyes. It fills me up like a balloon, and I laugh.
“Something funny?” he calls out, the corners of his mouth rising higher.
“Not at all,” I say. In the span of only a few seconds, I feel like I understand the Bennetts better, why they do this: there’s a high in the inevitable submission . . . in trusting the horse. And it makes me wonder if it’s a similar feeling to earn their trust back.
The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway pulls me from the thought, and I look to find a black pickup truck moving up the long drive toward the house—Brooks’s truck. I watch as he parks next to Jason’s Mustang before opening his door and jumping out. Brooks is tall and muscular, the oldest and biggest of all the Bennett brothers. He wears a black T-shirt over dark jeans and black boots, a cowboy hat riding low over his brows. I can only see the bottom half of his face, but I swear he looks this way.
The passenger door opens too, and a small woman with curly blonde hair steps down in white cowboy boots with bright red and pink flowers on them. They’re cute —I could definitely be persuaded to wear shitkickers if they make them like that. She opens the back door and reaches in before pulling out a small child.
He looks to be only three or four, though his little body is nearly half the length of his mom’s. Brooks comes around from the other side with a car seat hanging from his hand, another boy of about six or seven at his side. It’s clear this is his family, though I had no idea he had one. I know he lives in his own house on the property—the biggest one aside from the main house—but I always assumed he lived in it alone.
Wells holds a hand up in greeting, and Brooks lifts his free hand back. Before Brooks can stop him, the oldest child kicks off into a sprint right toward us. “Uncle Wells!” he hollers, his feet furiously pounding against the scattered grass.
Wells chuckles out a warm and buoyant sound, jumping over the corral’s fence line and kneeling just as the boy barrels into his arms. He stands back to his full height with the boy tucked in his grip, straddling his waist from the side. “Hey, Liam,” he says, his expression full of a deep affection that catches me off guard. His eyes flash back to me, checking to make sure I’m still okay.
“Who’s that?” Liam asks, pointing a blue-markered finger my way.
Wells smiles wider. “That’s Layla. She’s my friend,” he says. And it feels like a lightning strike to the chest, how easily he claims it.
“Nice to meet you, Liam,” I say, grinning like a lunatic, I’m sure. The dynamics of the Bennett family intrigue me; I’ve never seen a family so big and full of life.
Liam’s returning smile is small and shy, and he wiggles until Wells plants him back on the ground.
“Sorry about that!” the woman calls out as she approaches from the drive.
“No worries,” Wells replies. “Catch anything good?”
The woman laughs, shaking her head. “You know how these boys are . . . way too loud for us to have any real chance of coming back with a fish.” She turns to look at me, her expression curious. “Hi,” she says over the distance, though Champ has naturally moved us closer to them, his interest piqued at the new arrivals. “I’m Melody, Brooks’s wife.” Though she seems outgoing and friendly, there’s a shadow in her expression.
I wave a hand up awkwardly. “I’m Layla, Jason’s girlfriend.”
“Ah.” Melody nods as all three of us look in Jason’s direction. Liam’s made his way over to him and has somehow stolen the football. Jason chases him, no humor on his face. “Everything okay with him?” she asks, unfazed by Jason’s frustration.
Wells shrugs. “We had a bad game last night.”
Liam pretends like he’s going to bolt to the left toward a tree, and just as Jason’s body moves that way he shifts to the right and squeals with joy. Jason’s anger looks more forced now, like he’s trying to hold on to it with everything he has. But it’s clear he’s fighting a smile. He recovers the fake-out and sprints to Liam, finally catching him and throwing him over his shoulder with a wide grin.
“Well,” Melody says, “looks like the Liam Effect is working.” She turns her attention back toward me. “I’m going to go save Jason, but it was nice to meet you!”
“I like your boots!” I say before it’s too late.
She looks down at them, at the embroidered flowers stitched right into the leather. “Thanks, I made them myself.”
“Wow,” I let out. “They’re beautiful.”
She gives me a shining smile, then turns and heads for the main house. Wells shifts backward in his boots before shaking his head and climbing back over the fence and into the corral.
I almost forgot I was still on a horse.
“Ready?” he asks, looking up at me earnestly. He seems looser, like his nephew unraveled some of the tension in his shoulders. I sense Jason approaching, knowing he’s also just had some of his anger unraveled, but I don’t look in his direction. Instead, I focus on Wells, nodding. “Okay, I want you to stand up in the stirrups and swing your right leg over here, and I’ll help you down.”
“Okay,” I say as I shift my weight to my feet, careful not to squeeze against Champ’s belly. He shifts his weight and for a moment I’m scared he’s going to bolt, but he doesn’t. I do as Wells instructed and swing my leg over, immediately feeling Wells’s hands fasten to my waist, warm fingers splayed against my lower ribs.
He lets go of me as soon as my shoes hit the earth and shifts his focus to retrieving the reins back off the pommel. I look at Jason, who definitely seems lighter. “How was it?” he asks.
I give him a small smile. “It was . . . really good, actually.” I turn back to Wells. “Thank you. I already can’t wait to do it again.”
The look he shoots back is pure delight, and for the second time today, I’m surprised by his easy joy.