Jet nudges my back, and I give his nose a stroke. Leading the horses into the barn at the end of the night has been a chore I’ve had since I was five. I remember that first time like it was yesterday. Dad hadn’t known I was following him as he led an old mare into the barn. He had an endearing habit of talking to the horses. He’d divulge secrets to them he wouldn’t share with anyone else, not even me.

And he was telling her that he needed a boy, some strong young son to take his place.

A daughter, he’d confided as the mare shook her head and swished her tail, was trouble. He was certain I’d be like my mom, knocked up at sixteen and married off to the stupid boy she’d fallen in love with.

The problem was, my mother wouldn’t be able to give him any more children. He would never have that son he so desperately needed to fill his boot prints when he was gone. No, my mother had bled out seconds after I’d been delivered.

And something in dad burned out when she died. Something intangible, but I’d seen it in pictures of him before she was gone, pictures of him as a child, pictures of him as a handsome young man that dotted the walls of the old family farm house. Some spark that loved life just… fizzled out.

Dad never blamed me, or if he did, he never made me aware of it.

I think he blamed himself. I think that pain destroyed him, ate him alive inside, yet still, he somehow managed to give me a good life, a solid foundation, and the tools I needed to become someone stronger than he’d ever hoped a daughter could be.

As he talked to that old mare that night when I was five years old, I’d walked right up and took the mare’s lead rope from him. In my best grown up voice, I’d told him I’d take her from here. He’d just stared after me, as if unsure what had happened or if he should argue with me.

But he hadn’t. And from then on, he expected me to bring them in every night.

A breeze kicks up and I lift my face toward the heavens. It had been a brilliant early summer day and the world still smells like warm apples and horses, hay and willow trees.

I miss him.

It’s different to lose a parent you’ve never really met. I didn’t know mom beyond the stories dad had told me. She’d been sweet, quick to love, and very unassuming. Dad told me I was like her, and I rebelled against that thought.

I don’t want to be sweet or unassuming. There’s no place for either of those traits on a ranch. I need to be tough, rough, and able to roll with the punches life throws at me. And there’ve been a lot of punches.

I stand still and look up at the stars that are beginning to blink overhead. The edge of the horizon is still fading orange and the chill is quickly destroying the warmth of the day. Jet lowers his head to nibble on the grass at our feet and I give his neck a quick rub. The old dirt road leading to the barn is lined with grass that’s short here and there where the horses have kept it in check.

The barn stands out against the green mountains behind. The aspen trees back there line the creek. Beyond the far side of the creek bank, the mountain climbs steeply and the trees turn to maple, pine, cedar, and oak. Dad loved the peace out here, the sound of the water running over rocks, the sound of the wind in the trees.

He’d told the mares that this place was his heaven on earth.

It’s only been six months since he passed away.

Only seven months since I’d finally gotten him to go to the hospital.

Seven months ago they’d told us he had stage four prostate cancer.

Seven months ago, they’d said he had four weeks left to live.

That I had four weeks to make peace with the fact that I’d be alone in the world.

He’d gripped my hand, then, he’d held it tight. I felt his apology in his grip, and it killed me. Even now, my eyes tear up at the memory. Even after being given the news that he would die, he was apologizing to me like it was his fault.

It’s been six months since I stood before his fresh grave beside the mother I can’t remember.

“I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself,” I say softly to Jet, who lifts his head, perks his ears, and stops chewing on the grass he’d ripped free as he listens to my wobbly words.

Sure, dad wanted a boy. But I’m still here.

I’m still taking care of his ranch. My ranch. My namesake. The place that my grandparents had passed on to my father. A place filled with ghosts that roam freely during the wee hours of the night.

But those ghosts don’t bring me peace. No, I feel more alone than I ever have before. Every night after I lock the horses up, I make my way to the house with a sense of dread. Because I remember coming in to dinner and light, warmth from the fire and dad’s smile.

But that was before.

Now I come home to the single bulb I leave on over the porch that casts light into the kitchen. I never leave the fire going for fear of burning the place down. Dinner consists of whatever I have the energy to throw together; usually ramen or pizza because they’re both easy and fast.

Dad would scold me for that, but I’m just too damn tired to take care of myself.

But all of that means nothing. Coming home to an empty house without dad’s love and joy is like coming home to a tomb. I just haven’t died yet.

With a sigh, I vault up onto Jet’s back. With the lead over his shoulders, I hold tight with my legs and tilt my hips forward to encourage him to get moving.

He does, and I realize how exhausted I really am.

This place is too much work for one person. I spend seventeen hours a day working. I could hire some help, but my experience with that has never been good. Men don’t listen to me. They pretend to work and fool around when I turn my back. Dad was good at keeping people in line with barked orders and threats, but I just sound silly when I try to be like him.

It’s easier to go it alone.

But it leaves me lonely. There’s no chance at a social life here with as much as I work. Even hired help offers some passing topical conversation. Now I just talk to the horses. Guess I’m more like dad than I give myself credit for.

Jet stops before the barn and I slide from his back to open the door. He follows me in, lifting his head as the other horses look at us over their stall doors. The warm, horsey smells of the barn close in like a hug that feels like coming home and I feel a tiny sense of peace. All too soon, I close Jet in his stall and lock the double locks.

On my way out, I peek in on Genuine Honor – Jenny for short – and see she’s still standing. Her huge gravid belly is growing day by day, and I make a note that I’ll have to call Kyle out to look at her tomorrow. She’s due soon, and while dad swore no mare needs a vet around to throw a colt, I feel better with help on hand.

I give her nose a gentle pet, talking softly to her. “Such a pretty girl,” I tell her and her ears swivel and lock forward like she’s hanging on my every word. “I bet you’re uncomfortable, baby, it’ll be okay.” She lifts and lowers her head in a spirited show like she’s agreeing with me. It’s her signature move, and makes her easily my favorite mare.

As I lock up the barn for the night, I look over the sea of faces peeking at me over stall doors, ears forward and curious eyes on me, I smile. I wouldn’t trade this for anything. Dad taught me a love of horses at a young age. And all the bloodlines we’ve had in our family for generations are highly prized and sought after.

It pays for the ranch, and keeps me living well, but if I’ve no time to enjoy what I’ve worked so hard for, what’s the point?

Feeling like a dead person walking, I make my way back to the ranch house.

The porch light draws me in like a moth and I stumble up the steps, keeping on my feet only because of my death grip on the railing. Inside, I lock the door up tight behind me out of habit. A glance around the kitchen leaves me no doubt that I’m just too tired to even try to make myself food.

I’m too tired to even human.

With that, I decide to forgo even the stairs and curl up on the couch. I’ve already got a blanket there and a pillow. Some nights, this is all I’ve got. Drag myself to the couch, curl up and fall asleep.

Dad would be so disappointed.