Page 24 of Unlocking Melodies

“Oh yes, your therapy horse! Such a clever idea, getting a horse specifically for stress relief. Though we all knew it was really because you're a softie who can't resist a rescue case.”

I found my way to the stables, armed with treats Liam had left in a labeled container (Past Jimmy was really into labeling things). A gruff voice stopped me before I could figure out which end of the horse to approach.

“You're holding those all wrong, son.” An older man in well-worn ranch clothes approached. “She'll take your whole hand if you feed her like that.”

“I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was just testing a new treat-holding technique?”

He laughed, the sound as weathered as his boots. “Hank,” he introduced himself, showing me how to properly offer the treats. “And I figure you've had enough people tiptoeing around your memory loss for one day.”

The lack of pressure was like a physical relief. “That obvious?”

“Mrs. Henderson's casserole mission isn't exactly subtle.” He scratched Melody's nose while she delicately took a treat from my now-correctly-positioned hand. “Don't worry too much about what you can't remember. Town's still here. People still care. Rest'll come or it won't.”

“That simple?”

“Nothing simple about it. But making it complicated won't help.” He leaned against the stall door. “Want to hear about the time you talked down Angry Bruce?”

“Angry Bruce?”

“Meanest bull this side of Texas. Got loose during the spring roundup when you were still new to town. Everyone's panicking, running around like chickens, and there you are, cool as anything, just walking up to him playing that weird humming thing you do when you're thinking.”

“I stopped a bull with humming?”

“Calmed him right down. Said it was just like handling drunk customers at the bar - you just had to project the right energy.”

I stared at Melody, who was now gently headbutting my shoulder for more treats. “I'm starting to think Past Jimmy was some kind of wizard.”

Hank laughed again. “Nah. Just someone who cared. About everything and everyone. Never met a problem you didn't want to help solve.” He pushed off from the stall. “That's why this place feels like home, even if you can't remember it. You built that feeling yourself, one small kindness at a time.”

He wandered off, leaving me with a horse who apparently knew me better than I knew myself, and the strange certainty that for the first time since waking up in the hospital, someone had told me something true about who I was.

“So,” I told Melody, offering another treat. “Any other secrets about me you'd like to share?”

She just bumped my shoulder again, apparently satisfied that even if I couldn't remember our history, I could still be trained to provide snacks on demand.

I was still puzzling over Melody's feeding schedule (who knew horses needed such detailed meal planning?) when Caleb found me in the stables. He watched me squint at the whiteboard full of notes for a moment before clearing his throat.

“You know,” he said carefully, like someone approaching a spooked horse, “we could use help with the bookkeeping. You were always good with numbers.”

The offer was so carefully casual it almost hurt. Everyone walking on eggshells around me, trying to find pieces of Past Jimmy I could still handle.

“I did notice Past Me was weirdly organized,” I said, gesturing at the perfectly labeled feed bins.

“Past You?” Caleb grinned. “Is that what we're calling him now?”

“Well, it's better than 'That Guy Who Was Way More Competent Than Current Me.'”

“Come on.” He nodded toward the office. “Let's see if spreadsheets trigger any memories.”

Surprisingly, the ranch's books did feel comfortable. Numbers were straightforward - they didn't look at you with disappointed recognition or try to remind you of shared memories you couldn't access. I was deep in a satisfying rabbit hole of feed costs when a voice cut through my concentration.

“Working already? That's definitely going in the article.”

I looked up to find a lanky guy with a press badge and an alarmingly knowing smile leaning in the doorway.

“Riley Stanton,” he introduced himself, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. “Local paper. And before you panic, this is a totally casual, friendly visit. The coffee's just because I'm nice, not because I'm hoping for an exclusive about the handsome tech billionaire who keeps staring at you at The Watering Hole.”

“I... what? Who’s the billionaire?”

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