Chapter Five
I thought unaccountably of fairytales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse.
When I get back to the ranch, there’s Chet, sitting by his fire pit. Next to him is a small table that holds a lantern; he’s using its light to read a book. The flames dance while he nurses a drink—one huge ice cube with two fingers’ worth of brown liquor.
Probably bourbon. Reminds me of home.
As I approach, Chet doesn’t look up. His left foot rests on an upturned log, elevated with an ice pack pressed against his ankle.
I clear my throat. “Hey. Mind if I join you?”
He doesn’t answer. I take that as tacit consent. Hovering near the edge of the fire pit, I extend my hands to the warmth. Chet casts a glance at my face, then places his book face down on his thigh, open to the page where he left off.
I spot the cover. Amazingly, it’s Escape from the Springs.
Okay. Perhaps it’s not so amazing. Around here, Marigold Sanders is a local author.
Years ago, I read an article that explained how she became famous with her salacious, Nora Roberts–like storytelling, always using a fictionalized version of Sugar Pine Springs as her setting.
But her second book is different from the rest. It’s written in first person, and there’s both mystery and controversy.
Some believe the book is actually by Marigold’s first husband, James; that he wrote it before hiking up the mountain that sets Sugar Pine Springs in shadow most of the day.
After he disappeared, they sent out massive search parties. But he was never seen again.
“Didn’t I tell you to go home?” Chet stares at the fire while speaking to me, his voice a mixture of fatigue and anger. “Are you incapable of following instructions?”
“Funny you should ask . . .” I stand up straight, spine long, trying to make the most of my short stature. “Thing is,” I begin, “I already know y’all here at Resilience Ranch, and—”
“Where are you from?” Chet interrupts. “Not from Sugar Pine, right?”
“I’m from Lexington, Kentucky.”
“Ah.” Chet’s smirk (I was right that it’s his go-to facial expression) deepens into a scowl. “Far from home, then. What in God’s name are you doing at Resilience Ranch?”
“I’m your employee,” I state, trying to meet his gaze. “My home is that trailer over there, cuz I was hired to care for your horses.”
“Nah, that’s impossible. Never even heard of you.”
“Axel Rose didn’t mention me?”
“Nope.” His answer plunks like a stone dropped into a pond.
Heart pounding, I silently weigh my options. Because in about twenty seconds (give or take), Chet will most likely send me packing. Then where will I go?
“Well . . .” I gulp. Feigning confidence, I sit myself down on a stump that can serve as a chair.
“I got here yesterday, same time as Miss Adele. I kept her calm while she adjusted to her new digs. Let me tell you, that horse is a peach. I can only just imagine what her previous owners did to make her so world-weary, and at such a young age. They’d better hope not to ever meet me in a dark alley. ”
Chet gives me a sideways glance. “Why? Would you start a rumble? Or would you just skip straight to puking on their shoes?”
“A rumble? What, are we in West Side Story?”
“Either that or The Exorcist,” he retorts. “Back in the woods I thought your head might spin a full 360 degrees.”
Heat gathers behind my cheeks. “Sorry about that. Whenever a horse gets hurt, I feel their pain so acutely that, well, I barf. And Copper Cash and I are just about besties. So, if you could give me a chance to—”
“Stop,” Chet says. “No need to beg. I was just messing with you.”
His face, illuminated by firelight, projects extreme self-satisfaction. Jeezle-Pete, he’s a smug bastard.
“Beg your pardon?”
He sighs. “Axel Rose did mention hiring you. And when I said, ‘Hell no, I won’t permit some strange girl to live and work here without at least checking her references,’ she threatened to quit if I didn’t let you stay. So your job here is safe. For now.”
“Oh.” Sparks fly as a log that’s practically burnt all the way through collapses. “Thank you?” I don’t mean it to come out as a question, but somehow it does.
“You’re welcome,” Chet says tightly. “By the way, I knew who you were the moment I saw you on the trail. Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”
I reel back. “Can you blame me? I didn’t exactly make a strong impression.”
“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. “I disagree. A good impression? Not at all. But you sure as hell made a strong one.”
“Right.” I force out a small laugh. “How’s your ankle?”
Chet tips his glass as if toasting its medicinal properties. “Bruised. But more bruised is my pride.”
“Does that happen a lot? The bruised pride thing?”
“No comment,” he says.
“Understood.” I gesture toward his book. “Want to hear something crazy? I was reading Escape from the Springs right before I decided to leave Kentucky for Colorado. It’s such a good book, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” He pats the cover. “Just a shame that Marigold Sanders takes credit for writing it.”
I blink and tilt my head. It’s like I’ve been presented with a puzzle that ought to have a solution but doesn’t. “You think James wrote it.”
“Not think. Know.” He waves a hand, maybe at the dying stars overhead, or maybe at James’s unresolved ghost, out there somewhere on the mountain.
“But how do you know?” I ask. “Have you met Marigold? Did you pour whiskey down her throat and force a confession?”
“I have met her,” Chet answers. “But I didn’t get her drunk or interrogate her. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone knows that she didn’t write that book. I’m not saying that her romances aren’t weirdly addictive. But Escape is a whole different animal. Different voice.”
“Maybe she’s more versatile than you think,” I say, feeling my hackles go up.
Chet must sense my irritation. “Why,” he asks, “does it matter whether or not she wrote it?”
“Because,” I explain, “that book means a lot to me. Its depiction of freedom and escape is so authentic. So if its author is a fake, then, well, the book isn’t what I dreamt it was.”
“I see.” Chet takes another sip of his drink. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “What did you need to escape, Jane?”
“That’s an awfully personal question.”
“Don’t answer it then.”
I force a grin. “Guess I’ve just always had a wanderlust. I long for a big adventure under an even bigger sky.”
Chet stares at the ice cube in his glass, swirling it. “Hate to break it to you, but the sky is the exact same size, no matter where you are in the world. I know it looks bigger out here. Problem is, that only makes you realize how small you are. You know, in the grand scheme of things.”
Thanks for the man-splanation, I want to say. “That’s very profound,” I say instead. “Thank you.” It comes out sarcastically.
Chet chuckles. “Any time.”
“How often do you ride?” I ask. “Are you a genuine cowboy, or just a dilettante?”
“Obviously,” he quips, “I’m way more dilettante than cowboy, but I ride every morning if I can. Always on Copper Cash.”
Heaving a sigh, I stand. “Speaking of morning, it almost is one. I should go to bed. The horses are early risers. That means I am too.”
“Suit yourself,” Chet says. The firelight plays wild over his face. Anger, loneliness, resignation—they all crash together like debris during a storm. I slip away without another word, his gaze heavy on my turned back.
Inside the trailer, I dump my boots by the door and shuffle into the kitchenette, pouring tap water into a chipped coffee mug, which I’ll place on my nightstand.
The stillness inside is dense and a little thrilling—every creak and click of the cooling metal frame makes the place sound haunted.
Brushing my teeth, I gaze at my reflection in the tiny mirror.
Eyes red from wind and smoke, freckles jumping out against my pale skin like constellations. I look tired but not unhappy.
Soon, I’m lying in bed, trying to drift off. A flicker threads through the gap in my curtains. It’s the light from the firepit, plus Chet’s reading lantern. I inch the curtain open just a crack. Chet’s still sitting in front of the flames.
He’s so still. For a moment, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then, as if on cue, his hand moves to rub at his ankle. He resumes reading the final pages of Escape from the Springs. I watch him for a solid minute, maybe more, curious and a little concerned.
But am I concerned for him, or for myself?