Page 47 of We Redeemed the Rain

Alright, as promised, I’ll tell you about my horse, Tillie.

A few months back, I was at a feedlot with Judd. We were there auctioning off some cattle. And I’d brought my savings to see if I could find myself my very own horse. Well, there was a bay mare pacing alone in a pen (bay means brown with a strong black hue, almost black mane and tail). I creptas close as I could, making sure to keep out of her reach. She was stamping the ground and tossing her head. Whoever owned her before had hurt her. I knew because she had tiny white scars all over her flanks, a few on her withers. Like someone had hit her with something and broken her skin, over and over. Patches of her mane were missing, and her ribs were visible, too.

No one was going to buy her. Horses like her were snatched up at low prices by slaughterhouses. If I didn’t do something, she’d be carted off to Mexico and turned into meat patties. I know that’s the way of things in this industry. Some people see the animals as work tools—once they break, they’re thrown away. For example, you’ll see a lot of injured or geriatric horses dumped at feedlots. No one talks about it, but we all know where they go. I hate it. Doesn’t seem fair for an animal who has faithfully served their entire life to get tossed out like a dull blade.

Looking at her, so young and full of life, I knew I had to do something. I got a second chance coming to the ranch, and I wanted her to have that, too.

Judd spent two hours trying to talk me out of it. Said, “I ain't drivin’ all the way back out here ta try'n sell her again. Ya know if ya don’t get her trained—which ya won’t—you’ll have ta shoot her. Big hole ta dig, son. Back-breakin’ work.”

I found another horse, a painted gelding. Almost bought him, but I couldn’t. Compassion twisted in me to the point I thought I was going to be sick. I knew I’d regret walking out with anything besides her. Since no one else was bidding, I got her at a steal.

Getting her into a trailer was a disaster. Judd was cussing the horse, cussing me, but I didn’t care. I had no plans to dig a hole.

Tillie just needed a friend. For a whole two weeks, I sat on the fence near her. Then I started creeping up and offering apples. Usually chunk by chunk scattered through the pasture between her and me. Once she realized I wasn’t going to hurt her, she let me get a little closer everyday. It took me alot of nights and a whole lot of apples to get her to let me touch her between the eyes. But now, when she hears me whistle, she flips her tail.

Cowboys have a habit of clicking their tongues constantly around the horses. I figured out pretty fast that Tillie doesn’t like that. Whoever hurt her must’ve made that sound or maybe even had a hand clicker. I stopped using it immediately when I saw how agitated it made her. Won’t lie, it is a hard habit to break. But she likes being talked to. So, I talk to her in as gentle of a voice as I can.

Everyone around here knows Tillie is my horse. Maybe it’s weird to love a horse, but I do love her. We don’t have everything perfect yet, but all the training will come with time and a lot of patience.

Does your family have any animals?

I laughed reading about your sprinkle obsession. I’ve always thought they kind of taste like dye, maybe? I cannot fathom eating them by the handful. Ha ha. I shouldn’t be surprised though. You love color—it only makes sense you’d like the way color tastes, too. From now on, any time I see sprinkles, I’ll think of you.

To answer your question, my favorite ice cream flavor is Praline Pecan. But maybe that’s because it’s the only flavor my Gran will buy.

We are branding new calves this weekend. I hate branding, so I'll be looking forward to your letter. Hope yours is fun.

I have to go because it’s getting dark now. And your song is playing. I’m going to listen for a while then head inside.

Scribbs

FOURTEEN

Tag

The sun was long gone.

As the hour edged past 10:30 p.m., the crowd got rowdier. Not every rodeo was a drunken party, but some were. And this one was getting a little out of hand. Used to be my scene, but not anymore. Anytime I’d ever picked up a bottle, it was because I was looking for something. And alotof drinks later, I still hadn’t found it. So I gave up trying. Working myself into the ground was equally numbing but easier on the wallet.

I walked through the corrals one more time. The horses were fine. They were ready for their big day tomorrow. The sheep were fed. Everything that needed doing was done. There was nothing to keep me from going back to Bea.

Nothing except my own self.

I should’ve checked on her hours ago. Dread twisted deep in my gut as I wondered what she’d done with herself all day.

At one point in my life, I did care for her. But our friendship really boiled down to one thing—an outlet. We both needed a place to be real and found that amid anonymity and postage stamps. Everything I shared wasn’t ever supposed to come look me in the face.

And now that it had, my insides clawed for stability. I’d fought a panicky tightening in my chest all day long. Yes, our letters saw me through some of the darkest days of my life. But I shared too freely and leaned too heavily on a girl who never should’ve met me.

I forced myself to walk out of the arena corrals and into the night. The last events ended fifteen minutes ago, and the crowd slowly dispersed to the parking lots. Bugs darted around the bright field lights, frying themselves. And music still thumped over the speakers as concessions worked through the last line of customers. Had Bea eaten today?

Why didn’t I at least leave her with a Meadowbrook credit card so she could take care of herself? Or a phone charger for that matter. I should’ve given her the semi keys. What if she got sick? Tired? What if she needed help, and I was nowhere to be found?

Loud laughter jerked my attention toward the ticket booth area. A man pushed another and beer sloshed out of his cup, slapping onto the ground. The folks around them were carrying on, stumbling toward cars I hoped they wouldn’t be driving.

I allowed my eyes to linger on portions of the crowd. What was she wearing? I racked my brain until I remembered. All white. Tank top and short skirt. Hair tied up high. Too sexy a get-up for all the crazies swarming this place. What if someone hurt her?

Keeping my head down and working usually kept anxiety at bay. But now, every fear cropped up, fierce and hot, demanding my attention. My brain jumped to the worst case scenario—every single time. I would get thoughts in my head that made my footsteps falter with their vividity. That made me feel insane for thinking them in the first place.

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