CHAPTER FIVE
Sidney opened the bathroom door and wiped the steam off the mirror, knowing the exact second Bryan had entered the barn. Not because she had some crazy comic character ESP when it came to him—that would be too weird. It was earthlier than that, like how a Venus flytrap knows when something edible falls within its grasp.
She frowned at the analogy. Kinda made her sound predatorial, as if she needed to ensnare a man to get a date.
With the bathroom stuffy after her shower, she left the door open while she finished getting ready for dinner. Not that there was much for her to do, deodorant, teeth brushed, hair moussed. Sidney didn’t have a little black dress, or any makeup, or even any perfume. She was failing women across the globe—dropping the ball, tripping at the one-yard line, skipping the winning goal off the top of the goal post.
Dolly Parton would be rolling over in her grave if her death hadn’t been a hoax.
She did polish her boots, but they were still pretty scuffed so she wasn’t sure that counted.
Bryan knocked lightly on the doorjamb. “You about ready?” He was dressed in dark pressed jeans and a stark white cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. His boots—classic black. His hair lightly mussed from the walk over. His pecs, award winning.
She tried not to stare—well, not really. They were right at eye level so it wasn’t her fault.
Sidney washed the mousse off her hands before her fingers cemented themselves together and took the hand towel he offered. “Sorry for the way I look. Everything I own is for work.”
“Relax,” he said as they headed down the barn aisle to his truck. “Our clothes are clean, which makes us overdressed for this joint. Besides, who doesn’t like Frank Zappa.” He looked down at her Zappa Plays Zappa concert shirt. Not her favorite group, so she didn’t wear it much, which by default meant it was the nicest T-shirt she owned.
He held open the passenger door of his blue F-150 for her. They climbed in and he said, “This place isn’t exactly Ruth’s Chris, or even one of the fancy new Mickey D’s, but they have a killer steak and the apple pie makes you glad to be an American.”
He reversed the truck but stopped before pulling out. “We need to lock Eli in his stall? He’s not gonna follow us into town, is he?”
“We’re good,” she said. “He never follows when I drive away. Somehow he knows the difference.”
“Smart horse.”
“He’s Stephen Hawking in Mister Ed’s body.”
There were a few cars and trucks in front of the diner when they pulled up. The outside looked like an old railway car that had been converted. Its skin shone like polished chrome, its nose sleek and pointy.
They climbed the steep steps and entered the restaurant. It was wider inside than expected, the back half obviously blown out and added on. Even with the expansion there were only a few booths and a long counter with red vinyl-wrapped stools, and the restaurant was packed.
Sidney leaned into him. “Maybe we should have made reservations.”
“Lordy, look what the damn cat dragged in.” A waitress came around the counter with her arms raised, pad and pen in hand, and gave Bryan a big hug.
Sidney couldn’t tell if she was young and had been rode hard and put up wet, or if she was old and looked really good for her age. She was a little stooped and thin—the kind of thin people get from not enough rest and too many cigarettes.
“Pearl,” Bryan said, “this is—”
“Sidney,” Pearl finished for him. She leaned in and spoke out of the side of her mouth like she was passing on state secrets. “It’s a small town. We don’t have a lot to talk about.”
“Any room for us?” Bryan asked.
“If anyone else is joining you, you’ll have to wait for one of the booths, but if it’s the two of you on a date…” She let her sentence trail off like a seasoned reporter for the Enquirer fishing with hundred-pound test line for juicy gossip.
“It’s dinner. Him and me. Not like a date.”
Bryan looked at her like she’d suddenly sprouted elf ears. She fingered the tip of her right ear to be certain.
“Yes, like a date,” he said, a funny mix of incredulity and amusement in his eyes. Then to Pearl he said, “First date.”
“Carl!” Pearl hollered over her shoulder like she was summoning the man from hell and not from a few bar stools over. “Scoot your skinny ass over one so Boomer and his lady can sit down.”
Subtle.
The tips of Sidney’s non-elfin ears heated. Bryan put his arm around her shoulder and whispered to her, “We could still make the long drive into Alpine. I hear they have a sandwich shop.”
It wasn’t like they were trying to hide anything. There wasn’t anything to hide. Plus, she was starving. “No,” she said. “This is fine.”
Carl slid over as ordered, and everyone went back to their conversations. The aisle between the stools and the booths could accommodate one person at a time, so Bryan ushered her ahead of him with a light hand at her lower back. He patted Carl on the shoulder as he passed, “Thanks, man.”
Carl lifted his beer in toast and turned back to the guy on the other side of him.
The stools must have been extra close together, like that thing airlines do to pack people in, because Bryan’s thigh rested tightly against hers. If he noticed, it didn’t seem to affect him. Sidney fluffed the neck of her shirt.
Twenty-seven was too young for hot flashes.
Pearl went back around the counter, slid a couple of menus in front of them, and leaned against the counter behind her. “What’ll you have to drink?”
Bryan didn’t hesitate. “Zonker Stout.”
Sidney ordered tea and perused the menu. All around, the cacophony of the diner engulfed her. The clomp and scrape of utensils on plates, the clatter of glasses on tables, and boisterous conversation that varied all the way from the weather to some lady named Ingrid’s penchant for walking the town sans bra.
In the kitchen, the grill hissed and fryers dinged, filling the air with a mixture of hot oil, beef steak, French fries, and burgers. It made her mouth salivate and her stomach do the cha-cha.
The cook passed a pie through the window. Apple cinnamon, from the smell of it. Its crust lightly browned, hot filling bubbling through the slits. She almost dug her fork in while Pearl had her back turned.
Bryan leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his, nodding his head toward the pie. “You can’t leave without trying some.”
Before she could answer, Pearl dropped off their drinks.
“Ready to order?”
“Go ahead,” Sidney told Bryan, unable to decide between the steak and the fresh trout tacos. Deciding on the tacos, when her turn came, she opened her mouth and “I’ll have the apple pie” came rolling out.
“That’s it?” Pearl asked.
“Uh, no. Make that à la mode, with chocolate and butterscotch and nuts and a cherry.”
“Sprinkles?”
She patted her stomach absently. “Nah, don’t want to get too crazy.”
Bryan chuckled and his lips turned up at the ends—it wasn’t in invitation, but tell that to her libido. Then he raised his half-drunk beer in toast. “Here’s to a woman who isn’t afraid of going after what she wants.”
She raised her tea and clinked his glass, the heat in her ears returned. “It’s pie and ice cream.”
“This time. Next time, the world.”
It felt like he was in her corner, that she had a one-man cheering section, that suddenly she wasn’t so alone, that somehow, she mattered. Her throat tightened, and she struggled to swallow her tea. “Thanks,” she choked out.
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into him, kissing the side of her head as if he understood how much the comment meant to her.
She cleared her throat and changed the subject. If she dwelled on his kind words any longer, her eyes might spring a leak. “So, what did Mac say about us going out together?”
Bryan stopped with his beer halfway to his lips and turned his head to look at her, he scanned her face. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m serious.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking baffled and genuinely confused. “Uh…‘have fun’?”
“No, really.”
Their food arrived and she dug into her pie, using it as an excuse not to look him in the eye. Chicken.
“Really,” he said around a bite of steak.
“You’re my supervisor.”
“This is a small-time gig and we’re grown-ass adults. No one on the S cares who’s sleeping with who.”
She choked on her whipped cream. “Who said I’m sleeping with you?”
That came out louder than she’d intended because the conversations had died. The guy to her right reached behind her to give Bryan a fist bump.
“Figure of speech, Irish. All I’m getting at is there’s nothing saying we can’t see each other.” He forked another piece of steak and flagged it at her for emphasis. “If it makes you feel any better, consider us colleagues, peers. I’m head of construction, you’re head of training. See, no conflict.”
“I report to you.”
“Because Mac and Hank are usually out with Alby and Santos, and my work is at the cabins so I’m around more. So, all good, right?”
Her stomach did a little flop. Maybe she needed some protein to balance out all the sugar. She stabbed a piece of his steak and swallowed it down, but it didn’t make her feel any better. The reality that there was no reason they couldn’t see each other was both frightening and freeing.
She stole another piece of steak. It really was good.
He pushed his plate toward her. “Help yourself.”
She ignored the hint of sarcasm in his voice, pushed her half-eaten pie and soupy ice cream toward him, and helped herself to his dinner.
By the time they’d finished their shared meal, the place was almost empty and Carl was long gone.
“Hey, Wilcox.” A man from one of the booths walked their way. Bryan turned and shook his hand. The man tipped his hat at Sidney. “I heard a couple of your boys ran into some trouble by the river.”
“Not trouble so much as tracks that shouldn’t have been there.” To Sidney, Bryan explained, “Bill works on the ranch south of the S.”
“We were moving some of the cattle up toward Dead Man’s Pass. Saw some riders off in the distance. Three riders and a donkey all strapped up like they was gonna supply the Ark.”
“It’s public land up that way,” Bryan said. “Not illegal for them to be there or unusual to see packers either, now that the snow’s melting higher up.”
The man scrubbed at a light scattering of stubble along his jaw. “Nah. Didn’t have that kind of feel. Weekend horse campers ’n such, they tend to be a friendly bunch. These guys…” He shook his head. “These guys not so much. As soon as we started riding their way they lit outta there.”
“Do you have a description?”
“Nah, never got that close. Like you said. Public land. They’d ever’ right ta be there. But the ol’ gut says somethin’ ain’t right.” He patted his paunch. If size were an indicator of accuracy, his gut must have been spot on.
“Thanks, we’ll keep an eye out,” Bryan said.
While the conversation wandered, Sidney excused herself to visit the restroom. She didn’t know what to make of the sheriff’s concerns, what Alby and Santos had seen, and now what this guy and his men had witnessed, but she didn’t see how it would affect her. Ninety-nine percent of her time was on the ranch proper, training the horses. She shouldn’t have anything to worry about.
She washed the sticky spots of pie from her fingers and washed her face. When she came back out, she stalled in her steps. Bryan sat alone on his stool, and he pulled something out of his pocket, tossed it into the back of his throat, and washed it down with the dregs of his beer.
He turned to her as he put his mug down and froze for a nanosecond, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong and wondered how much she’d seen, but then an inviting smile spread across his face, convincing her she’d imagined the stutter in his movements.
Her parents had made her ultrasensitive and a little paranoid. He probably had a headache. It had been a long day.
Still, as he walked her to his truck, she had a niggling in her gut, a gnawing, a knowing that something wasn’t right. Her ice cream soured, curdling in her belly.
She decided she would start by not making assumptions about what she’d seen. “How’s your head?”
“My head?” He leaned against the passenger door, but she couldn’t look him in the eye. He lifted her chin with his index finger. “Why are you asking?” His voice hovered above a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure wanted to hear the answer.
A rancid concoction of apples and dairy climbed the back of her throat. She swallowed it down and managed a fortifying breath. “Are you taking drugs?”
She waited for the quick denial, the explanation that would clear things up, that would make them laugh about the conclusions she’d jumped to.
Instead she got a hard, considering stare. He crossed his arms over his chest. Even in the dim light of the parking lot she could see the corded muscles in his forearms. She looked up. A vessel pulsed at his temple.
He blew out a hot breath. “Meds,” he said. “Prescription pain meds. I don’t take illegal drugs.”
“Prescriptions can be abused.”
He was slow to answer. “Yeah.”
Again, no denial. She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse. An abuser would deny it, but so would someone who didn’t.
She needed a straight answer. “Do you abuse them?”
“What’s your definition of abuse?”
She let out an incredulous laugh. She felt like the dog chasing the squirrel around the tree trunk; she was running, running, running, and the squirrel was always a quarter turn ahead, out of sight, out of reach.
“Forget it,” she said. “I’d like to go home now.”
“Look, Sid—” He reached for her hand, but she yanked it away, not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid his touch would melt her resolve.
Life was so much easier when you looked the other way.
“Please take me home.”
“Sid…Sidney, would you at least look at me?”
Slowly, she looked up. His expression was strange, and intense mix of exasperation and give-a-guy-a-break.
He scratched at his beard, thoughtful. “I take the meds for the pain in my leg. Sometimes it’s phantom pains, sometimes it’s real pain if I overdo it.”
“Do you ever take them when you don’t have pain?”
“I live in constant pain. Every. Fucking. Day.” His voice was harsh, guttural—a cornered, wounded animal. “Whether it’s physical or psychological or emotional or spiritual. I live in pain every damn day.” He jabbed an index finger in her direction, emphasizing his words. “And until you have sacrificed a part of your body, part of your life, watched your buddies maimed or vaporized in front of your eyes, you and everyone else have no right to judge.”
As much as she hurt for him, for what he’d lived through, for what his friends hadn’t, she would finish the conversation. She cleared the emotion from her throat. “Have you considered getting help?”
He laughed. It was bitter and bruised and brutal. “I don’t need help, Irish. I don’t want help. I’m not out of control. Have you seen me drunk? Drugged up? Unable to do my job? A danger to others?”
“I haven’t known you very long.”
He snorted, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You know what I need?” He didn’t wait for a response, but barreled on. “What I need is for people to accept me for the man I am today. Not wait for the man I was to come back, because that man punched a one-way ticket to hell.”
* * * *
Boomer pulled up next to the barn and stared out his windshield. Stars pocked the inky sky, infinite, like his regrets. He went to open Sidney’s door, but she’d climbed out by the time he’d rounded the hood. Leaning on the front end of his truck, he took her hand. It was slight and strong, delicate and calloused.
The contrast fascinated him, how this dichotomy of her physical being reflected her inner self. Did his exterior mimic his interior? Battered, bruised, and not entirely in one piece?
More like FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.
Yeah, FUBAR summed him up.
She didn’t take her hand back. “Thank you for tonight,” she said at last. “You’ll never know how much it meant to me.”
On a half snort, he said, “It was pie and ice cream.”
“I meant the honesty.”
“Yeah, well, no one deserves to be lied to.” He tipped her chin up. “Especially you.” When he leaned in to kiss her good night she turned her head at the last second. His lips glanced off hers and crash-landed on her cheek, like the big fat fuck off it was.
Her message was clear.
Honesty was all fine and good, but that didn’t mean she accepted his truth.
Accepted him.
He’d been sucker punched in basic training. This sucked ass much the same.
She squeezed his hand and looked him in the eye when she spoke. “You know, Bryan, I really like you—”
“Don’t.” The quarter moon was halfway up, her features shadowed and dulled in the low light, so he couldn’t read her expression.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say anything else. ‘I really like you,’ period. No comma, no buts.”
Her teeth flashed bright and sharp, cutting the tension. “If hair washer at the salon isn’t your thing, you can always try your hand as an English professor.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“But…”
“Please don’t say the F word.”
“I thought ‘fuck was your favorite word.”
“Not fuck, friend.”
She scrunched up her face. “Finished? How’s that for an F word?”
He groaned. “Say it fast then, like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
“I think it’s better if we don’t see each other.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, battering his ego as they fell.
How was that different than wanting to remain friends? He pasted on a close proximity of a smile. No need for her to know her words had bruised him. “You want me to close my eyes every time you pass by?”
“Exactly.” She huffed out a laugh, and though the darkness made it difficult for him to see, he’d bet his SIG Sauer and a set of blasting caps she rolled her eyes.
Fluent in English and sarcasm. Smart, talented, and bilingual.
“Whatever you want, Irish.”
She smiled as she turned her face into the moonlight, but pity made it flat and tight. She slowly stepped back, their fingers sliding apart when she’d gone too far. “You know that whole not-lying thing you were talking about?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you extend that courtesy to yourself, not just to others.”
Her boots scuffled in the dirt, and he watched the play of her hips until the dark mouth of the barn swallowed her whole.
Boomer beeped his truck locked and walked back to his cabin to clear his head.
She was wrong. He wasn’t lying to himself. Did he drink? Yes. Take pain meds? Fuck yes. Did he have a reason to? That would be a resounding yes.
Was it a problem? The half-digested steak flopped in his belly, still showing signs of life. No…no, he was good.
He laughed at himself. Yeah, sounded like denial, but like he’d told Sidney, he didn’t get drunk any more than the next guy, the drinking didn’t affect his work, he wasn’t hurting anything but his pocketbook. If drinking made his fight for peace an ass-hair-width easier, then who was anyone else to judge?
He double-dog-ass dared anyone to walk a mile in his prosthetic and not come out screaming on the other side.
* * * *
Cleaning out Eli’s stall, the air was cool, but sweat dampened Sidney’s bra. She let the rhythmic thump and scrape of the manure fork fade into the background as her mind whirled through her plans for the training demonstration later that morning.
Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, her muscles fatigued beyond what she’d ever endured, and she’d been up until three in the morning making sure Things One and Two were bathed and clipped and their coats shone like Turkish copper pots.
The horses had been under saddle for a week, and despite everything she’d worked on there remained unlimited potential for things to go pear shaped in the span of a second.
“Why aren’t you up at the house getting breakfast?”
She glanced up to see Bryan leaning against the support post of the open stall, his shirt off as he wiped sweat from his face and neck, his socket and blade prosthetic jutting from the bottom of his running shorts.
Perspiration formed on her upper lip and the remaining coolness in the air evaporated.
She must be coming down with something—all those long hours. High stress. The hormones. Like early menopause. No, no lies.
Okay, so she found him attractive.
Like a moth to an acetylene torch.
“I wanted to get a few things done before I came up,” she said.
“Nervous?”
Sidney tightened her grip on the manure fork so he wouldn’t see her hands shake. “Do I look nervous?”
He tilted his head and studied her face. “You look exhausted—and a little like you dined on week-old roadkill.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you to resist me.” She scooped another heavy pile of manure, shook the shavings out, and dumped the load into the wheelbarrow. She’d seen her reflection that morning. If anything, he was being kind.
Honesty. If you are going to talk the talk… She worked her neck from side to side and shook out her arms like a sprinter toeing the line at the Olympics. “I’m good. Mostly. When I don’t think about it, or the fact that my future could hinge on this demonstration. So yeah, pretty much nervous as hell.”
“You know what, Irish? You’ve done the work. I’ve seen you up early and training late. I’ve seen you take a herd of scared horses and give—”
“And a burro.”
“And a burro,” he corrected amiably. “And give them a great foundation. You’re going to kick so much ass this guy won’t be able to sit for a week. So give ’em hell today.”
Her cheeks heated. She looked down at her boots and kicked at a manure ball she’d missed. She cocked her head and looked back up at him. “Thanks. You going to be there?”
“Just need to shower and dump the sweat out of my socket before my leg slips off, then I’ll be back.”
Sidney scrunched up her nose. “Thanks for that visual.”
“Just a little brutal honesty.”
“Maybe we can agree on a little veiled honesty, angelic white lies, if it’s before breakfast.”
He raised his hands and backed slowly away, mischief tugging at the corners of his bright smile. “Hey, trying to give a girl what she wants.”
She ignored the zing at her core when he mentioned her wants. Bryan was the shiny red apple in the Garden of Eden waiting to be eaten. The lock on Pandora’s Box waiting to be picked.
Two hours later, Sidney had One and Two saddled in the barn, their manes and tails sleek and shiny with ShowSheen. Richard Hockley had arrived fifteen minutes before and had gone up to the house with Mac and Hank. Santos and Alby were somewhere around, trying to look busy until the demo started.
She combed the brush through One’s lush tail over and over and over. He swished his tail hard enough that she lost her grip, and his tail floated back down.
Pretty tails wouldn’t sell the horses. Training would. She dropped the brush in the grooming bucket. Eli called out to her from his stall and knocked a front hoof against the stall door, frustrated at the extra measures she’d gone through to keep him locked up. She couldn’t risk having him pull a Houdini and mess everything up.
Mac stepped into the tack-up area, dressed in jeans, boots, and a fitted T-shirt. Her dark brown hair was in a ponytail out the back of her USMC baseball cap. “Time to show ’em what you got.”
Sidney nodded, her stomach queasy and her heart rate revving two clicks above normal. She pulled the tail on the lead rope’s quick-release knot and led One down the barn aisle. Mac walked ahead and rejoined the others. As Sidney stepped out into the sun, she settled her best tan cowboy hat on her head and reached for the stirrup.
Showtime.
She stepped up and threw her leg over One. As she found the opposite stirrup, her stomach settled and her heart rate slowed to normal. All she could do was her best.
Mac, Hank, Lottie, Dale, and Richard Hockley lined up against the round pen. Bryan was off to one side, sitting on the tail bed of his truck, flanked on either side by Alby and Santos on their horses.
Sidney started slow, demonstrating One’s lightness in the bridle, then went on to show his ease and willingness to transition from the walk to the trot, then up to the canter.
On the downward transitions, he responded to her seat cues, slowing to a trot and then back to a walk by her sitting deeper into the saddle, without pulling back on the reins. He pivoted on the fore and the hindquarters.
After she finished with One she moved on to Two, again highlighting the solid foundation she put on them to set both the horses and their future riders up for success.
Near the end of the demonstration, she stripped the horses of their saddles and bridles, put their halters on, and led them over to the two-horse trailer Bryan had brought around for her. She threw the lead ropes over One and Two’s backs and told them to load up.
Two stepped off. One lingered and glanced at her over his shoulder, as if to ask if he really had to do it. “Load up,” she told him again. He cleared his nose, shooting droplets of snot onto her one nice shirt as he passed.
She sneaked a glance at Bryan. He shot her a quick thumbs-up, his smile making the sky bluer and the sun brighter.
Within a few seconds, both horses were loaded and standing calmly in the trailer. Not bad for a prey animal with a natural fear of tight spaces. Then she told them both to back up. One came out faster than she liked, but Two backed out like a rock star not wanting to leave the stage.
She gathered a lead rope in each hand as she led the horses back to the group, unable to keep the smile off her face, so she didn’t even bother trying to act cool and professional.
She was Brandi Chastain after her goal at the World Cup. She fought the urge to rip her shirt off in victory and run around the field in her sports bra, waving her shirt over her head while the crowd cheered her on.
Only there wasn’t much of a crowd.
And no one cheered.
Bryan gave her a nod of approval. Mac and the rest of them were smiling.
Except Hockley.
Hockley stood against the round pen, one leg bent back and braced on the rail behind him, one arm draped over his chest, the other under his chin, doing his best impression of The Thinker, furrowed brows and all. Except The Thinker’s expression was less stony.
Sidney stopped a few feet away, her heart rate kicking up with each second that passed. Mac glanced at Hank, who shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that on Bryan would have been who-the-fuck-knows.
Dale cleared his throat—a tad louder than was necessary to get the job of throat-clearing done—and stepped up to Sidney with his hand out. “Damn fine job.”
Sidney shook his hand. “Thank you.”
Dale clapped Richard Hockley on the back, which finally reanimated the man. “So, what do you think?”
“Impressive.” Hockley gave Sidney a short nod. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.” Her cheeks cramped her smile was so big. “This is only the beginning of their training. By the time they’re done, you’ll be able to put a seasoned hunter or a rank beginner on their backs. A string anyone would be proud to own.”
Hockley nodded again. He had a way of making Clint Eastwood seem verbose. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Sidney Teller.” For the first time in a long time, she said her last name with pride.
Hockley froze, as if he’d turned back into stone, but then he said, “Any relation to the Terrible Tellers?”
Sidney choked on air, sweat beaded on her scalp, and by the weird flutter thing her heart did, she was pretty certain her atria had gone into fibrillation. “Excuse me?”
“The Tellers. The ones that were in the news a while back for abusive training practices, felony neglect. You one of them?”
“They are my parents, but I assure you I am not one of them.”
Hockley turned to Dale, his lip raised in a near snarl. “As a friend, I expected better than this from you.”
Dale turned that funny shade of purple-red that made EMTs reach for the oxygen masks. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The Tellers’ kid?” Hockley started walking back to his truck in choppy, robotic strides. Dale followed.
Hockley said, “I don’t want nothing to do with anything she’s touched. If you had any sense you wouldn’t either.”
Sidney’s cheeks flamed as anger flooded in. She shouldn’t have to defend herself so vehemently after the demonstration she’d had, but defend herself she would.
Sidney dropped One and Two’s lead ropes and jogged after Dale and Hockley, stopping in front of the man and making him come up short. “With all due respect, what my parents did was reprehensible, trust me, I get that. But don’t kick me to the curb and slap a damaged goods sign on my forehead because of my last name. You saw with your own eyes what I can do, what I can accomplish in a very short time.”
“Yes, but by what means?”
Dale said, “Richard—”
“Dale, let me, please,” Sidney said. When Dale nodded, she continued. “I don’t mistreat my horses. Do you see any lash marks or welts? Any girth galls? Spur marks, malnourishment, or anything else that would make you think they’ve had anything but the best care and training?”
“I ain’t willin’ to take that chance.” Hockley turned to Dale and said, “If you were smart, you’d find someone else. Ain’t no one gonna want to risk their clients’ safety on harshly trained horses.”
“Mr. Hockley—”
“Let him go,” Dale said.
Sidney and Dale watched as the man climbed into his late-model Ram dually. He shifted, buzzed the window down, and as he reversed in the driveway he said, “Yer gonna regret this, Cunningham. Mark my words.”
They stood there side by side until the truck disappeared down the hill. Sidney blinked back the sting in her eyes, taking shallow breaths, because it felt like she had the whole mustang herd, plus the burro, sitting on her chest.
She’d failed.
Them and herself.
She’d been a fool—complete with pointy shoes and multicolored tights—to think she would ever escape the hellhole her parents had dug for her. “S-so what happens now?”
Dale put his arm around her shoulders and walked her back toward the barn. “Now we put the horses away, you take the rest of the weekend off because you deserve it, and we’ll sort the rest of it out later.”
She nodded, because that was the best she could do without blubbering like a four-year-old at a Bambi screening. With her hands outstretched, she snagged both of the lead ropes from Bryan and turned toward the barn to give the horses a much-deserved hosing off.
“Help her out there, will ya, Boom?” Dale asked.
“No,” Sidney said, a little too loud, a little too forcefully. She hadn’t meant it to come out that harsh, but she’d needed the extra push to get the words past the stricture in her throat.
“I don’t mind helping,” Bryan said.
She glanced around. Santos and Alby had gone back to work. Dale had met up with Hank and Mac and Lottie and they were heading back up to the house. “I’d rather do it myself.”
“Sid—”
“Please?” Her voice cracked, but she was at the point where she almost didn’t care.
“Sure,” he said, though the hard set of his mouth told her he was resigned, not agreeable. “I’ll see you around.”
He walked away backwards, as if waiting for her to say she’d changed her mind. She watched him go until he gave up and turned around. She opened her mouth to call him back, but then reality slammed into her, knocking her thoughts, her words, out of her.
The reality that even though she’d worked her ass off, it wasn’t enough. The reality that even though the horses’ performances amazed her, it wasn’t enough. The reality that even though she’d done her name proud, it may not be enough to keep her job.