Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
Bea
N othing about Tag’s office was a mess.
At first glance, anyway.
A simple wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, in front of three tall filing cabinets. On the desk was a clear pamphlet holder with white pamphlets inside. I pulled one out. Meadowbrook Performance Horses was across the front in black type. Who designed these? They were not very attractive and nothing about them looked branded to the ranch. Coming up the driveway this morning, I saw Meadowbrook’s logo on the sign by the road. It was a circle with an M in the middle. Why wasn’t that at least on the pamphlet?
The walls were bare aside from a large framed map. When I stepped closer, I realized it was a map of the old Meadowbrook, when it was still three thousand acres. What happened? How on earth was it only eighty now?
My stomach twisted. It had to be something awful. The Tag I knew never would’ve parted with the land willingly. He loved the space, the rolling hills, the creek that flowed through them. From everything I’d seen over the weekend, he was well on his way to building a new legacy as a horse rancher. But I knew, deep down, he was fighting for it. I could only imagine the obstacles he’d had to overcome.
Maybe he would open up and tell me about them…eventually. For now, understanding him was left to my observational skills.
Behind Tag’s desk on the floor, I found a box of unopened mail. All kinds of stuff dating back a few months that hadn’t even been opened yet. Considering he bought the semi recently, I’d put my money on the warranty registration being there, but I felt really uncomfortable sorting his mail so decided to check the files first.
I jerked all my body weight against the first filing drawer. It creaked out, metal scraping against metal. There were tabs like pedigrees, vet receipts, vet insurance, and the like, but quick inspection proved very few files contained the appropriate documents. They seemed stuck in at random. I wondered why. How hard was it to take a few minutes in order to put mail where it belonged?
I shuffled through stacks and stacks of papers. I did my best not to be nosy, but a few times my eyes lingered out of sheer curiosity. There were some overdue bill notices, credit card statements, and hospital bills.
My heart clenched with pain for Tag. What a burden these must be.
I knew better than most the financial pressure of medical debt. A tragedy could bankrupt an otherwise well-off family even if they had decent insurance. Out of pocket costs could wrack into the thousands in the blink of an eye.
Samuel Taggart was the name on the invoices, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was the patient. Was it someone else? An employee maybe?
My brother’s life had cost my father everything. Our family went from comfortable to barely scraping by within a year. Not only did the medical bills pour in, but Dad took months away from his job and worked for a gravel and mulch company, which allowed him to stay in the Denver area. It was a massive pay cut. But he didn’t want to be across the country while Peter hung by a thread. We all stayed close to the hospital, in arm’s reach of a phone, and every moment as a family was soaked in as if it could’ve been the last. We lived on credit and prayers.
Dad still says it was worth it. We loved Peter to life, and that was all that mattered. Not money, career, or opportunity. Only life and love and the gift of existing without regrets. Dad always said if Peter died, he wanted to send him onward knowing he was every bit the father he could’ve been.
Couldn’t fault a dad for a motive so pure. Even if it did wreck financial havoc on our family.
Peter and I did our best to throw chunks of money at some of our parents’ debt and chip in when we could. Both of them deserved to retire before their bodies forced them too.
I tried to shove the bills out of my mind and focus on the task at hand. I’d only made it through two of the six filing drawers before giving up and deciding to check the pile of mail. I hadn’t seen anything dated past February in the drawers, so new stuff was likely my best bet.
Ninety minutes into my search, I found the warranty registration application , and none of the fields were filled out. My heart sunk into my stomach. Maybe…he had filled them out elsewhere and this was an extra form? I could only hope for the best as I dialed the number to confirm.
I found myself wandering down the driveway, looking for Tag. I scanned every building and distant field as I went. The trucks were all here, so where was he?
Truth be told, I could have called him, but the big house felt quiet and I needed a walk anyway.
I followed the main corridor of the barn, surprised to see every stall empty. “Tag?” I called—only loud enough that someone in my direct vicinity would hear. I stopped motion, listening.
When I was met with silence, I finished walking the corridor, out to the other side of the barn. Far beyond the barn doors, I saw him.
He was in a large, circular arena atop a beautiful chestnut horse. A metal fence surrounded a slab of dusty dirt, and I immediately recognized the lever-release bucking chutes off the side. This must be where Tag trained his horses.
Tag pushed the horse into a run and circled the arena. I leaned against a barrier fence, watching from a distance. The horse’s mane and tail streamed out behind her, her hooves pounding into the dirt. Tag’s voice filtered my way now and then—he was talking to her. The pair of them were making so much noise, I wondered how I didn’t hear them before.
After circling five or six times, he leaned forward, brushing a hand down her neck. I couldn’t hear his voice anymore, but his lips were moving. I found myself smiling. He slipped out of the saddle and grabbed her reins, tugging her toward the barn.
They would walk right by me. My mouth suddenly dried, and I almost laughed at myself. I didn’t know what to expect from Tag. His responses were an odd combination of thoughtful and dismissive—completely unreadable. Maybe that’s why my hands fretted at my thighs until I shoved them into the back pockets of my cut-off skinny jeans.
I rarely got nervous, but here I was—smoothing my hair back and wondering whether I should say hello or just let him see me first. I had only seen him a few hours ago, but for some reason, it felt longer than that.
I knew the moment Tag saw me, because he went from looking straight ahead to looking at the ground and his hand reached to rub the back of his neck. The rim of the cowboy hat blocked my view of his face. He walked up the slight slope toward the barn’s back entryway. When he looked up, his eyes found mine. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, I found the warranty company’s phone number. I tried calling several times and left a few messages. They are supposed to return the call by end of day.”
“Alright.” He pulled the horse to a stop a few feet away from me. “Thank you, for callin’ them.”
“No problem. ”
“That really helps out.”
“Well, I’m glad to do something .”
A beat of silence passed and Tag twisted the reins in his palms. His brows knit as he fell into his role of host. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Uh, no, not at all!” My voice was higher pitched than I intended. “I think I’m going to take myself on a walk and, you know, kind of sight-see the ranch a little bit.”
He nodded once. “Watch out for rattlers.”
“I’m sorry. Rattlers? You mean, rattle snakes ?”
“Off the west side of the driveway, there’s some rocks. Just don’t wander off down there.” He continued toward the barn, talking to me over his shoulder. “You’ll be fine if you stay ‘round the pastures.”
Okay, nixing the walk idea.
I turned on my heel, following him inside. The barn corridor was T shaped, with two hallways branching from the main. Tag led the horse to the left hallway and clipped a rope onto both sides of its bridle, securing her in place. Without acknowledging that I’d followed him, he went straight to work—loosening the strap, removing the saddle and blanket, grabbing a brush off a table against the wall. His deft hands flowed from task to task without ever hesitating. He brushed the horse’s back and sides, finishing in what had to be record time.
He unclipped her bridle and walked her back outside. Stopping at the barn hose, he stooped down and turned it on. Maybe it was weird I followed him, but I didn’t have anything better to do. I bit my tongue, forcing myself not to ask questions, because I knew he had a lot to do.
Hose blasting, he finally said something to me. “Wanna hose her down?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
He passed the hose to me.
“Everywhere?”
“Yep.”
I ran the water over her neck and down her spine, and her coat turned liquid. The hairs lifted and flowed together. She gave a loud, long sigh and I giggled. “Does she like it?”
“They all do.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lady May.”
“Do you name them all?”
“Not all of them. Cade and Jesse name some. Some I keep the names they come with.”
I wondered who named American Pie.
“I gotta grab another.” Tag tugged her reins, making a soft kissing sound at her. “Alright. Let's go, Lady.”
I followed again, my questions begging for release. “You don’t ride them all every day, do you?”
“Nope. I have a schedule. Every horse gets a ride twice a week to keep their top line in shape. We also have a trainin’ and exercise schedule. My trainer, Cook, comes at noon. I used to train ‘em myself, but then we got too—” He stopped abruptly and turned to look at me. His gaze fell to my Converse then traveled back to my face. “If you’re gonna follow me, we should grab another bridle.”
My eyebrows raised.
Fifteen minutes later, we walked back to the barn with two new horses: Coyote and Paprika. One question led to another, and pretty soon I was getting the crash course on how to curry brush the saddle area, how to pick hooves before riding, how to slip on a bridle, what type of saddle blanket to use, and how to tighten a cinch. I watched, listened, soaking every single word in.
Honestly, it made me wonder if he’d ever given lessons. He was a thorough, systematic teacher—even as he raced through the details. I didn’t ask him to teach me, he just did. I didn’t think he could stop himself. He loved talking about his passion.
Once Coyote was saddled, he said, “Alright. I gotta take him on a run around the arena. It’ll take ‘bout fifteen minutes, then I’ll do Paprika.”
“Tag?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I ride Paprika?”
He hesitated.
“I know you’re probably a little too busy to teach a newbie, but if it would be helpful, you could show me how and then I could help you get through the schedule.” That may have been putting a positive spin on things since I hadn’t been on a horse since I was here at Meadowbrook fourteen years ago.
He frowned, silent for a long moment. Finally, he answered. “Sure. I’ll show you.”
When Paprika was saddled, I led her to the arena beside Tag.
“Alright.” He stood next to Coyote and demonstrated. “Grab the horn.” His hand wrapped around a tall thing sticking off the saddle—the horn, I presumed. “Put your foot in the stirrup. Then pull and stand at the same time.” He did it slowly. “As you stand, lift your other leg”—he threw his leg across Coyote’s back and eased down into the saddle—“like this. See?”
He hopped down and stood beside me. “You try now.”
“Okay.” I grabbed the horn and slipped my foot into the stirrup.
“Nope. Your left foot.”
“Oh.” I switched feet and pulled. Heaving my weight up, the stirrup jerked forward and my heel pointed toward the ground. Off balance, I panicked. I flopped onto Paprika, folding my body over her, while gripping the horn and the back of the saddle for dear life. Why did I suddenly feel so high off the ground? Given my proximity to Tag and the fact I was bent at the waist a foot from his face, laughter burst from my throat.
I tried to lift my leg up and onto her back, but it was a long way from the saddle, my foot grazing the top of Paprika’s hips. The angle of my legs was far beyond ninety degrees. Hot blood rushed my face as I wheezed a laugh. “Tag, help me.”
Tag’s hand steadied my heel in the shaking stirrup. The soft laugh that permeated our first meeting in the mud, filtered through the air. “What’re you doin’?”
“Trying to get my leg over!”
“You gotta let go of the saddle and stand up.”
I let go.
“No.” A slight laugh. “Don’t let go of the horn!” His hand moved to my calf, pressing firmly so I stopped wobbling. With his other hand he touched mine—the one grabbing the back ridge of the saddle. “Move this hand back to the horn.”
I did as he said.
He put both his hands on my leg. I tried not to notice how warm and strong they were. “Good. Now stand straight up. You aren't goin’ anywhere. I got you.”
Holding onto the horn, I pulled my upper body off the saddle. My dangling foot instantly connected with the earth as I lost balance.
“Try again. All one motion this time. Pull up and lift your leg at the same time.” He touched my foot that was still in the stirrup. He pressed my toes down. “Also you’re losin’ balance ‘cause all your weight is goin’ into your heel. Put your weight into the stirrup by standin’ on the ball of your foot.”
I pulled with all my might and lifted my leg like I needed to throw it over a wall. With all the grace of a tumbling boulder, I slammed down into the saddle, nearly toppling off the other side. Righting myself with a jerk, I celebrated. “Ha! I did it!”
I looked down at Tag and a soft smile on his face made my heart flip. “Yep. Now reach forward and grab the reins.”
For the next twenty minutes, he showed me how to move Paprika around the arena. How to stop, go, and cut a quick turn. We even trotted side by side. I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face. I knew I was beaming, but I didn’t know how to stop.
His letters filtered through my mind like catchy lyrics. All the things he’d told me in his letters about horses, riding, the trails, and the stories he’d told. All the lines I would have forgotten forever if this very moment had never come to be.
“I wish I would've been helping with the trail rides the day your family was here. If you ever come back to the ranch, we’ll ride together. I’ll make sure of it.”
Here we were—riding together.
Maybe not as best friends. But as allies.
And I could live with that.
I tapped out a text to Tag:
Hey, what time is your work day over?
He quickly texted back:
Whenever the work is done.
Me
I went grocery shopping, and I’m making tacos. If I had dinner at eight, could you stop and eat?
Besides the cold breakfast items provided for Meadowbrook guests, the pickings in the kitchen had been paltry. Before shopping, I’d found decaffeinated black tea bags, a bag of sugar, random spices, dozens of eggs, wrinkly apples, expired salad dressing, and frozen meals. Now, I could actually work in there.
Tag
I don't want to eat the groceries you bought. Keep it for you.
Me
Oh! Don’t worry! I want to share. Eight o’clock then?
Three bubbles appeared.
And vanished.
And reappeared, pulsing as Tag typed on and on. Then vanished. Then reappeared.
Finally, his text came through.
Tag
All that typing for a thumbs up?
To my delight, at 7:59 p.m. Tag joined me at the kitchen bar stools for dinner. It was a quiet meal. Our utensils scraped against the plates, ice clinked in the glass cups, and taco shells crunched. He kept his eyes down almost the entire time. The silence didn't bother me too much because it seemed to spin his story in its own way, showing me just how high Tag’s walls truly were.
But my confidence suddenly popped as I watched his hands shake a little.
Scribbs had shared that he rarely had family meals growing up. Did sitting at the table make him nervous? Or did I put him on edge to the point of shaking?
I worried I’d never find out.