Chapter Four
He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow…I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness.
Pretty much immediately, the horses at Resilience Ranch and I become BFFs. None of them will replace Betty as my heart horse, but Miss Adele might come close. Meanwhile, after just one day, Axel Rose is a kindred spirit. The aunt I never knew I needed.
The only dark cloud in my new, sunny situation is Chet Edwards. Or, at least, the idea of Chet Edwards is a dark cloud.
“I told him that I hired you,” Axel Rose assures me, “and he’s fine with it. But wait until he approaches you before sparking up a conversation.” My face must convey my skepticism. “What can I say?” she states. “The guy’s a loner.”
I’m in no position to make a fuss or to go against Axel Rose’s advice. But it’s strange once Axel Rose goes home and there I am, alone in my trailer, with Chet right next door. So I type “Chet Edwards” into my search bar. That may be my only way of getting to know him.
I get tons of hits but not much insight into who this guy is—just the basics.
Like, for the first twelve years of his life, he and his single mom lived in East Palo Alto.
She provided for Chet by cleaning the homes of rich people in Silicon Valley.
Then—total Cinderella story—she married Tom Stevens, who’s a tech giant and trailblazing billionaire.
Chet didn’t just gain a stepfather, but also a stepbrother named Mason.
Chet and Mason are the same age, and while Tom paid for both of them to go to college, they were on their own after that.
Chet’s senior-year project at UC Berkeley was creating ShopSpot.
Mason, who majored in business at Cornell, moved back to California to help Chet market his platform.
Several years later, Mason bought Chet out of ShopSpot for undisclosed reasons.
That made Chet a billionaire, but he had the potential to make loads more.
People speculate that there was some sort of scandal kept under wraps—otherwise, why would Chet sacrifice the company he created? And since then, he’s laid low.
Except, he started dating Birdy Banks. At the time, she didn’t have lymphoma.
The two of them were a high-profile couple, traveling the world and attending multiple events, championing good causes.
Then, she got sick and they moved to Sugar Pine, where the hot springs are said to be therapeutic.
Birdy posted about the hot springs a lot, but she posted about the horses more, claiming that all the clean living and equine therapy sent her into remission.
It’s my second evening here, and dusk is falling. Axel Rose has gone home. Meanwhile, my job includes nighttime grooming, feeding, and caring for the horses. That’s fine—there’s literally nothing I’d rather do.
When I’m finished, it’s barely 8:00 p.m., and I still have energy to burn. The horses are done for the night, but my own two feet itch to move. So I grab a flashlight and set out on a hike. Other than riding, hiking is my absolute favorite outdoor activity.
Problem is, I get lost. Not sure how much time passes, but I traipse over rock after rock with only the moon and my phone’s flashlight to help me. I finally orient myself and figure out the way back to Resilience Ranch. Then, I hear galloping. A man atop a horse quickly approaches.
I bolt out of the way.
Good thing, because the horse’s front left hoof snags on a tree root protruding from the narrow dirt trail. Both man and horse fall to the ground.
The horse lands hard, knees buckling. For a heartbeat I fear his neck will snap.
Instead, the chestnut gelding skids on his left side, sending a spray of pine needles into the darkness.
The rider—who must have the instincts of a goddamn cat—rolls clear, tucking into a ball and popping up again.
It’s not as impressive as it sounds. He wobbles toward his horse.
“Don’t you touch him!” I shout.
I can see the whites of the gelding’s eyes, the panic-glossed flare of his nostrils. I know that fear, even in the dark. “Easy, boy, easy,” I say, but the horse isn’t hearing me. He’s blaming himself. Horses do that. They fall and they think it’s their fault.
My phone slips from my hand and thuds softly against the dirt. I turn on the guy. “What the hell were you thinking? Galloping a trail horse in the dark?”
He huffs, voice dry and tight. “Who the hell are you?”
Instead of answering him, I turn back toward the horse, cupping his neck and checking his eyes. “You’re okay,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
The horse grunts; it’s a deep, bassy sound. Then he snorts, as if to say, “Don’t be so dramatic, Jane.”
Yes, this horse knows my name, and I know his. He’s Copper Cash. According to Axel Rose, he’s Resilience Ranch’s one horse who hasn’t been mistreated and isn’t past his prime. And as I’ve already told Copper Cash multiple times, he’s a very good boy (perhaps the best boy ever . . .).
Maybe that’s why, even though Copper Cash seems okay, my stomach somersaults, desperate to eject everything inside it. Sympathy barf incoming—it’s the old Jane Wreck two-step.
The world zooms in, all colors and lights exploding behind my eyes, and then I projectile-vomit directly onto the toe of the man’s boot. He watches, open-mouthed, as a trail of my gag reflex binds us forever.
“Are. You. Kidding me?” he demands.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve, then glare at him. “If you had an ounce of horse sense, you’d realize you’re lucky he’s not dead.”
The man (yes, obviously it’s my boss, Chet Edwards) is still doubled over, sucking air like it’s scarce. “Easy there, Annie Oakley. Will my horse be alright?”
“Yes,” I answer.
He lets out a relieved sigh. “Great. Are we done here?”
I could use this moment to introduce myself, say something like, “Guess what? I’m your employee, and I’m living on your ranch!
” But I’d like to keep my job. Best to drop that truth bomb when he’s in a better mood.
Or when he’s not wiping my puke off his boots.
“Sure, but can I do anything for you?” I look down. “How’s your ankle?”
He grits his teeth. “Stand to the side.” After doing his best to kick my puke off his boots, Chet bears his weight on his foot and leg, as if testing to see just how injured he is.
“It’s only a sprain,” he says. “I should be fine.” But then he tries more weight on his injured foot again and releases an involuntary “Ugh!”
“I should be fine,” Chet repeats, his voice laced with pain. “You can go.”
“I won’t leave you alone and in the dark. Not until I see that you’re okay.”
He finally looks at me—really looks. “Go home.” He says this like I’m littering in his backyard. “You’re trespassing on my land.” Chet waves me off, all regal dismissal. “I like my privacy. Leave before I call the sheriff.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Thing is, you could kinda use my help.” I step closer. “Let’s cut the crap. What do you need?”
His eyes slice into mine. “Fine,” he says, voice low but sharp. “Get my horse’s bridle and lead him to me. But be careful. He’s in his angsty, post-adolescent phase. Likes to revolt against authority and all that.”
“No problem.” Clipping the bridle onto Copper Cash, I give him a little tug. He follows. I toss Chet a smug smile.
Chet’s mouth quirks up in disbelief. “That horse just loves embarrassing me. Serves me right, I suppose.”
“Could be worse. At least he’s not coming home with piercings and tattoos, claiming that he’s a socialist.”
“Mmm.” Chet steps forward, leans one hand on my shoulder—the weight on my collarbone just enough to say he’s still in pain—and grabs Copper Cash’s reins. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve got puke breath. With a grunt that could shatter glass, Chet swings into the saddle, wincing at his sprained ankle.
“Thanks,” he manages, as if the word could tip his pride over the edge. Then he flicks the reins. “Now go home. And stay there.”
Chet and Copper Cash fade into the moonlit pines, hoofbeats echoing away. I stand in the clearing, chest tight, wondering if that introduction could have gone any worse.
Have I already made an enemy of Chet Edwards?