And when he did, she was going to hate him even more.
Not that he cared.
CHAPTER 2
Thalia
“Scoop, lift, toss. Scoop, lift, toss.”
I grunt out this mantra as I muck the stall, moving horse shit to the wheelbarrow, which will later be dumped on the manure pile at the back of the barn. Sweat runs in rivulets down my face, grabbing the dust and grime left by a hard day’s work, but this is my last stall and then I’ll be done for the day.
“Scoop, lift, toss.” It’s a ridiculous chant, but I’ve always found some sort of cadence helps me with the repetitive chores.
My gelding quarter horse and number one man in my life, King, is tethered in the aisle while I clean his cozy abode. He’s watching me with eager eyes, knowing he’ll get his evening feed once I’m done.
Sliding my shovel under the last of King’s “contribution” to my workload, I dump it into the wheelbarrow and push it outside the stall. King doesn’t shy away from me or the wagon whose rusted wheel squeaks. He’s the calmest, gentlest, most steadfast horse I’ve ever had, and at ten years old, he just gets more mellow with age. I could crawl under him right now and go to sleep between his four hooves and under his thousand pounds of weight, knowing he’d never so much as bump my body with his.
Removing my work gloves, I toss them onto an old pine bench against the far wall. It’s a five-dollar purchase I made at an old antique store in Casper this past weekend, and I high-five myself for such a thrifty and practical purchase.
Grabbing a peppermint from a bucket, I remove the cellophane and offer the candy to King. He uses his lips to sweetly pluck it from my palm, and I use the opportunity to lean into him for some pets and snuggles.
They don’t last long, though, as King is hungry for his dinner. He snorts in annoyance over my attention, shaking his head to dislodge me.
“Fine,” I drawl as I lead him back into his stall. “Choose food over me. I won’t forget it.”
He nickers softly, not understanding what I’m saying but reiterating he’s hungry. I refresh his water, scoop feed into his bucket, and take one last moment to admire him after I slide the stall door shut and bolt it.
King is a chestnut quarter horse with a beautiful blaze of white running down his back right leg, from hip to hoof, and stands a little over sixteen hands high. My parents gave him to me for my seventeenth birthday, and it was love at first sight.
“See you in the morning, my man,” I murmur as I turn away and head out of the barn. The other horses are quiet, all having been fed and shut in for the night. All except for Dealer, a big bay in the last stall and the only breeding stallion I currently have. He kicks the back wall as I walk past.
“Be nice,” I admonish softly. “I’ll turn you out in the morning.”
He snorts in response and kicks the wall again. He’s really a big baby, and I love him to death, just as I love all my horses.
I exit the old barn but leave the two swinging doors open. It’s going to be a crisp night, and the fresh air will be good for them.
I relish the last lingering smells of fresh hay, horse, and leather as I stop at the water spigot. These are the smells of my ranch, and they are sweet to me.
I quickly wash my hands and dry them on my jeans. Grabbing the water bottle I left outside, I drain the contents and cross the enclosed paddock that connects to the barn.
Beyond that, the majestic, snow-covered peaks of the Teton Mountains still manage to take my breath away, despite having lived here my entire life. The setting sun paints an orange glow on the upper peaks’ remaining snow that sparkles like crushed diamonds lit on fire.
It was warm today for early July in Wyoming, but as the sun drops, I can feel the chill creeping in. The exertion from cleaning stalls has soaked my shirt in sweat. My back aches slightly from the constant shoveling, and my shoulders are sore from the repairs I made to the front paddock gate earlier today. These are all feelings I cherish because they confirm I have the strength to carry on my parents’ work and make this old ranch flourish.
Pulling off my Stetson that shielded me all day from the blazing sun, I wipe my sweaty forehead with the back of my shirtsleeve and push the hat back into place on my crown.
My parents taught me that I could do anything I set my mind to, which included taking over this ranch after they were killed eight years ago. I made the choice to leave college and come back here, determined to make it work in my parents’ memory. God, I’d give anything for them to see what I’ve accomplished. Whenever I think of them, I hurt so deeply in my chest, it steals my breath.