Chapter Twenty-Three
My blood crept cold through my veins…no, I was sure of it. It was not even that strange woman, Grace Poole.
For the following week, I banish any lingering doubts and convince myself that I didn’t see a face in the barn door.
I’m only partially successful.
Then, late one morning when I’m already in a sour mood, I slip and fall right into a huge pile of manure. Now, I’m a certified horse girl, no stranger to what Kentuckians lovingly call “meadow muffins.” But when I fall, hands forward, my knees, my chest, and even my chin are covered.
The worst part is that Chet witnesses it. Except, rather than laughing at me (like Reed would have done) or showing clear revulsion (Jackson’s would-be reaction), Chet rushes to my side and helps me up.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Define okay.”
Somehow, even though he grabbed my elbow, Chet manages not to get horse poop on himself. “Never mind,” he says. “Different question—would you like to take a shower?”
“Together? I mean, sure, but this—” I indicate my soiled frontside “—can’t be a huge turn-on.”
His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Jane, you could be covered in pus-oozing boils, and I’d still get turned on by you. But, no. I wasn’t suggesting we shower together. I was thinking you might use the stable’s shower stall . . . alone.”
“Dunno,” I joke. “That place has some strong memories attached to it. Once, I saw my boss showering there. And I’ll never be the same again.”
Chet’s eyes gleam with appreciation. That’s right—I’m covered in manure, but he’s looking at me like I’m the bee’s knees. And yet, I can’t quite trust this man.
“Anyway,” I continue, “since the landscapers are here and you never know when they’ll wander by, I’ll pass on the stable’s shower. Its curtain leaves little to the imagination.”
Our solution: Chet hoses me off enough that I don’t bring dung into my trailer.
Then I stand under my own shower until the hot water runs out—seven full minutes when the sun’s shining bright.
My mind wanders, and without meaning to, I’m replaying that face in the window again.
The steam fogs the mirror, and I don’t wipe it clean.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom tile. Bront?. I wrap myself in a towel. “Hi!”
“Finally,” she says by way of hello.
“I know, I know. It’s been a weird few days.”
“Weird how? Weird good or weird Chet?”
“Both.” Bront?’s already heard about Chet and me becoming an item. But not the most recent chapters. I sit on the edge of my bed and tell her about the barn. The face. The way it vanished when I blinked.
There’s a pause on her end. “Jane. Is it possible you imagined it?”
“Goodness, I hope so. Because the alternative is worse. That Chet’s aunt is a creeper and he’s complicit.”
“Or . . .” Another pause, gentler this time. “Could it be the Birdy thing? Like, your brain’s conjuring up worst-case scenarios?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But fill in the blanks for me, Bront?. What worst-case scenarios are we talking about?”
“That he’s still in love with her?”
I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Wait. You’re saying I imagined Birdy spying on Chet and me because, deep down, I’m afraid he still loves her?
“I’m saying it’s possible. Like your subconscious is messing with you—cuz of everything that went down with Chet, Birdy, and Mason. Talk about a tangled web!”
“Hold on.” Though I’m scared to hear the answer, I have to ask the question. “What went down between Chet, Birdy, and Mason? I mean, specifically the three of them together?”
I can hear Bront? shifting, like she’s uncomfortable. “Okay. I was on Instagram last night. Saw one of Birdy’s posts and randomly clicked on her profile. Then—not sure why—started scrolling through her grid, back to several years ago. Turns out, Birdy dated Mason before she ever was with Chet.”
There’s a tight, pinching sensation inside my chest. “Did Birdy post anything about why she and Mason broke up?”
“Not really.” Bront? sighs. “But I spent more time looking at her recent posts. She looks rough, Jane. And lately, she’s been posting from the cancer center. A lot.”
My head starts to hurt. “Let’s talk about something else.” I brighten my tone. “How’s work? How’s the sexy farmer?”
“You mean Michael?” Bront?’s voice lowers into a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m too superstitious to say that things are really good—but, Jane, things are really good.”
“Yay!” I cry. “Give me details!”
***
Later, I find Chet in the tack room, oiling a bridle. Which is great. It shows that Chet was sincere when he said he wants to be more hands-on with the horses.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up from his task. “Hi. How was your shower?”
“Good. Sorry I took so long.”
“No need to apologize.” Chet blinks at me. “Is something on your mind?”
Attempting to be casual, I lean against the doorframe. “Why do you ask?”
“Let’s just say you’re the most transparent person I’ve ever met.” Chet goes back to oiling the bridle.
Good to know. Guess there’s no point in hedging around the issue. “Chet, is it true that Mason and Birdy were a couple?”
His hands don’t stop moving. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Was it Instagram?” He sets the bridle down. “I thought you hated social media.”
“Chet.” I stand up straight, square my shoulders. “Come on.”
“What do you want me to say, Jane?”
“Just the truth.”
His chin juts out. “Yes. They were together.”
“Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“Because,” he says, voice tight, “it’s irrelevant. It’s also none of your business.”
Ouch. “I disagree,” I say. “After Mason was attacked, you had me lying to Theo. That makes anything Mason-related my business. And if he has a grudge against you—”
“Oh, he has a grudge against me,” Chet snaps. “But that grudge predates Birdy. Mason likes to hold a grudge against the entire world. Once I came to terms with that, I stopped worrying about him. Refused to let him live rent-free inside my mind. Understand?”
I shrug.
The leather smell is thick in here, and the single bulb overhead makes everything look like an old photograph. Chet breathes in, nostrils flaring. “You’re just going to have to trust me, Jane.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue: Someone was watching us through the barn window. But I feel the conversation close like a fist. Instead, I say, “Alright.”
Later, he finds me in the paddock with Rosie, one of the retired horses that Birdy adopted before I came to Resilience Ranch.
“Hey,” Chet says. “Show me again how you keep your palm flat while giving her a carrot?”
“Sure.”
I demonstrate it for him, and, like a pro, Chet gives Rosie another carrot.
Then, he softly says my name and kisses my temple. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair. “I handled that badly before, in the tack room. Forgive me?”
I nod and let him hold me. But I don’t say it’s okay, because I’m not sure yet that it is.
Before he leaves, River finds me. “Tomorrow’s the day,” he says. “Gonna start hiking the Colorado Trail. Wish me luck.” His face does something I can only describe as reverent.
I let out a wistful sigh. “Good luck. I hope you have a great time. Whenever you can, please send pictures.”
He grins. With his sun-kissed skin, golden-brown waves, and large, unblinking green eyes, River is part cherub, part Adonis. “You could still come.”
Randomly, a line from Escape from the Springs plays through my mind: To walk for miles with no purpose—but the walking is to remember, briefly, who you were before your bad choices and big mistakes . . .
For a second, more than anything, I want to remember who I was before all my bad choices and big mistakes. And I’m sure that backpacking along the Colorado Trail is how to do that—the thin air, the ache in my legs, the total absence of barn windows and faces that may or may not exist.
River’s looking at me, hope etched into his features.
“Someone has to stay and be complicated,” I tell him.
“I understand,” he says. “Guess this is goodbye for now.”
He hugs me, his sunscreen and cedar scent filling my nostrils. I hold on a beat too long.