Page 5 of High Intensity

I’m guessing that might be hormones, since drama and tears aren’t necessarily Sloane’s MO. River, concerned about his “mother’s” mood, sidles up beside her and drops his head on her lap, which only seems to encourage the waterworks.

“I’m making us a pot of tea instead of coffee, while you get a grip,” I announce resolutely, turning to reach for the roll of paper towels, which I deposit in front of her. Then I grab the kettle. “I’ll reiterate; do a test and make sure first. And if you are pregnant, you’ll be just fine. It’s not like you don’t know the drill, except this time you’re far better equipped.”

I realize I’m sounding rather harsh, perhaps even a bit insensitive. I’m not, but the subject matter will always be a bit of a struggle, I guess. Plugging in the kettle, I round the island and throw my arm around Sloane in a side hug.

“Look, there’s a reason babies take nine months to get here; to give the parents time to get their shit together. You’ll be fine,” I repeat, giving her a final squeeze.

“Ugh, the timing just sucks. My shift starts in half an hour, and Dan is dropping off Aspen at the ranch and then taking off on a call. I have no idea how long he’ll be gone.”

“It’ll give you time to pick up a test and know for sure before you tell him. One step at a time, my friend. Now,” I firmly change the subject. “Did you have breakfast? Can I toast you a bagel or something?”

Twenty minutes later, I watch Sloane drive off for her shift, River whimpering by my side. I nudge him back inside and close the door.

“You stay out of my laundry hamper, mister.”

River throws me a glance before he boldly jumps onto my couch and makes himself a place between Peanut and Hunter, who shoots him a half-hearted growl before going back to sleep. With the dogs settled in, I head to the bedroom to tackle another box. I feel the need to keep my hands busy, mainly so my minddoesn’t wander off to places I’m not in the mood to revisit right now.

Hard to do, and as soon as I start stacking my linens in the hallway closet, my thoughts drift back to when I first discovered I was pregnant. It was a lifetime ago. The memories come with a stab of pain, right in the middle of my chest, like a sharp jab to my sternum. Even after all these years, it steals my breath for a second.

Then I shake my head; this isn’t about me, this is about Sloane, and I’m happy for my friend, even if she doesn’t yet realize how lucky she is.

This morning’s visit went in a slightly different direction than I had thought. I’d hoped to be able to pick her brain over coffee, but the topic of conversation came out of the blue, and we ended up having tea.

I never got a chance to ask her about Lucas Wolff.

Bumping into him at Wellspring had been a surprise. I don’t know what shocked me more, the fact Wolff actually had a mother—the man gives off loudalone-in-the-worldvibes—or that this funny, tiny, firecracker of a woman could’ve given birth to such a reserved and seemingly humorless man.

I’d hope to find out from Sloane if he was this aloof and borderline asocial with everyone, or if that is something he reserves just for me. I have to admit, it’s intriguing—he’s intriguing—and it makes me want to rattle his cage, get under that impassive front he seems to put up around me.

But there are a few cracks, I’ve seen one or two, most recently yesterday at the Wellspring facility.

Wolff

Fuck, it’s cold this morning.

It’s in part the brisk wind bringing in a system from Alberta, which is supposed to hit sometime tonight. They’re expecting upward of ten inches of snow in the region, which is why we’re out early this morning, making sure we’re ready for the storm to hit.

Usually, before the first snow of the season hits, we bring the horses in closer to the ranch. There isn’t enough stable space for the entire herd, but the pastures immediately surrounding the ranch have field shelters where the animals tend to huddle during inclement weather. Those shelters also have warmed water troughs, and we make sure they’re always stocked with fresh hay.

This morning we’re out here dropping extra bales of hay. Also, to make any repairs to shelters with damage, like loose boards that could injure one of the animals.

“Grab the toolbox too,” I yell out to JD, who is already by the truck, getting a couple of new boards.

I’m tossing hay in the opposite corner, from where one of the horses kicked through the wall to get them out of our way. This is a smaller band of seven colts; generally speaking, a rowdy bunch. All between two and three, and learning to assert themselves. It’s not uncommon for us to find one or more horses with injuries when they decide to mete out their dominance.

One of the splintered boards has some bloody hair stuck to it, which leads me to check out the horses’ legs for damage.

“It was Ares,” I inform JD when he walks in.

I point out the flap of skin hanging down the feisty buckskin’s left rear leg, from a few inches above the hock to halfway down to his fetlock. It’s an ugly gouge and an open invitation to infection.

“Stupid bastard,” JD mumbles.

Then he turns and drops the toolbox and lumber by the damaged back wall, while I pull out my phone and dial the office.

“Hey, it’s Wolff,” I identify myself when Jonas answers. “We’re gonna need Doc Richards out in the northeast paddock. One of the colts, Ares, kicked through a wall and ripped his leg open good. He’s gonna need some stitches.”

“How long is it gonna take you to patch up the wall?”

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