Page 22 of Edge of Unbroken

I’ve always loved winters in Montana, even though they can be brutal. I just love the way the snow quiets the world and silences the noise, including the noise in my head. There’s no purer existence to me than being out here, inhaling the clean air, surrounded by mountains and woods and pastures, the only other breathing things around me the few people and livestock who call this ranch their home. I feel small out here, insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, but not in a bad way. It makes the shit that weighs me down less heavy. It feels like New York and everything that has happened to me is a million miles away.

Thomas, Elias, my grandfather, and I have been spending the hours since sunrise corralling cattle, which will be loaded up and transported to town for culling and the meat will be sold. It’s the main aspect of my grandparents’ business—raising cattle, then selling it for… for consumption. I’m perfectly aware of how this business works, but I try not to think about the details. I’m too much of a bleeding heart, I guess. As far as I’m concerned, the cattle my grandparents raise is sold to live out the rest of their lives on endless green pastures.

Today is the first day I’ve been back on a horse in over two years, and the moment I sit in the saddle I feel at home.

Reaper has been my horse since I was ten, when my grandfather bought him at auction. Reaper was only two and completely green. My grandfather and I broke him in, teaching him to accept a bridle, a saddle, and eventually me. Reaper moves beautifully underneath me, easily transitioning between a trot, a canter, and a full-on gallop. There’s something so freeing about being on horseback, the wind whipping in your face, and being one with the horse’s movements.

Reaper is a wiry Appaloosa, mostly black with white hindquarters adorned with black dots. He willingly responds to my commands, reacting to the slightest shift in my weight or tug on the reins, asking him to quickly change direction in anticipation of cattle breaking out of the herd.

By the time I dismount and lead Reaper back to the barn, my face is numb and my hands are frozen through my leather gloves, but I feel great. I should’ve gotten on that horse weeks ago, like my grandparents urged me to. I was hesitant because my knee still isn’t one-hundred percent, but they were right. Reaper is a great horse and I’m so in tune with him that there’s no way he’d buck me off or do anything crazy.

I unsaddle him and lead him back to the small pasture behind the barn, which is reserved for the horses in constant use or the mares about to foal. Reaper is such a willing horse that I only throw a lead rope over his neck—no need for a full-on halter—and pull it back off as soon as I close the gate behind us.

Once I climb back over the fence, pleased with how much more mobile I am despite the residual stiffness and pain, I trudge through the ankle-deep snow and back to the large two-story ranch house that’s my grandparents’—and currently my—home.

My understanding is that my grandfather built it from the ground up. It took him the better part of two years while he, my grandmother, my dad, and my aunt all lived in a small two-bedroom house already on the ranch when my grandparents bought the initial five hundred acres. They’ve since expanded dramatically, and my grandfather built my grandma’s dream home for her. It has huge windows facing both east and west and the open kitchen, dining area, and living room are always flooded with light. A wide staircase leads to the second floor, which remains largely unoccupied and is reserved for family. Right now, I’m the only one using one of the sizeable bedrooms—the bedroom that’s been mine all my life. It has three large windows, two of which overlook the mountains to the west and one facing north, giving me a perfect view of the driveway leading up to the house and the large barn.

My room here is way more spacious than my bedroom in New York, and it’s kept in a rustic ranch style with hardwood floors, a large wooden headboard, and a matching desk and dresser. There’s a box in the walk-in closet with some of my baby and toddler clothes, and a set of boots from when I was eleven. There’s also a small bag of weed taped to the underside of the second drawer of my dresser from when I lived here last time and was getting myself into all kinds of trouble. I know it’s there because I randomly remembered last week and checked. I have no intention of doing anything with it, but it’s weirdly comforting to have it here.

I enter the house through the mudroom, limping a bit. I take off my boots, heavy coat, gloves, chaps, and, finally, my ball cap. My grandfather keeps making comments about me not wearing a Stetson like everyone else, but my grandmother always comes to my rescue, sort of: “You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the boy.”

My grandfather always chuckles. “Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“Hi baby boy,” my grandma chirps the moment I emerge from the mudroom. “I heard you finally rode Reaper. Thomas said you looked like you never stopped riding,” she says delightedly, and I give her a smile. “How did it feel?”

“Pretty great.” I make my way into the kitchen where I turn on the faucet and stick my frozen hands under the water to thaw. “Definitely need to do that more often,” I say, enjoying the endorphins rushing through my body.

“I would say so.” My grandmother gives me a once-over. “Now we just need to fatten you up. You’re still too skinny.”

I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been saying that since I was born.” I turn off the water and dry my hands, which have finally shed their blue, frozen hue. “I could be at my fittest and you’d still want me to bulk up.”

“True,” she says. “But this time you really are too skinny.”

She’s right. I’ve lost a bunch of weight and muscle mass. I was so immobile in the beginning and my appetite was almost nonexistent. It’s getting better, especially because I’m moving a lot more. In fact, I hear my stomach rumble right now and decide to make myself a protein shake, which is another thing that causes my grandfather to shake his head. “If you need protein, kid, just eat a steak,” he keeps teasing me.

My grandpa enters the kitchen and plants a quick kiss on my grandmother’s temple before warming his frozen hands under the faucet like I did a moment ago.

“Perry, please hurry and change so we can get to church.” My grandma turns her attention to me. “I’d like it if you joined us at the service today,” she says, like she has on Christmas Eve and just about every Sunday since I got here.

“No, thanks,” I say, repeating the same words I have each time she “suggests” I tag along to Sunday church service.

“Baby boy, I really think it could be good for you,” she says, warmth in her voice.

“Morai, I know that’s what you think, but God and I don’t have any sort of relationship. Trust me on this one.” I turn to leave the kitchen, eager to end this conversation before I say anything else to upset her.

I grew up in a religious household. Both sets of my grandparents are Irish Catholics, and even though we never attended church when we lived in New York, my grandmother was adamant about us attending every Sunday whenever we lived with her. There’s no Catholic church anywhere near my grandparents’ ranch, so they just attend the small church in town—about an hour’s drive away—with an “anything is better than nothing” mindset. I did go with them, dutifully, even the last time I lived here three years ago, though that was really an excuse for me to sneak off with the girl I was seeing. We’d have sex in her truck or get into some form of trouble.

I can hear my grandmother start to say something, but my grandfather cuts her off. “Leave him be, love,” he says with an assuaging tone.

I make my way through the open living space and toward the stairs when my grandparents’ phone rings. My grandmother answers it just as I start climbing the stairs, though I make it only a few steps before she calls me back down. “Ran, it’s your dad,” she says, her tone happy. “He wants to talk to you.”

I stop, momentarily frozen to the spot. I haven’t been allowed to speak to anyone the entire time I’ve been in Montana, and my heart beats overtime. Does this mean my communication ban is over?

I walk back down the stairs as quickly as my body will allow and expectantly hold my hand out for the phone.

She gives me a bright smile. “Here he is, Frankie. I love you,” she says and hands me the phone.

“Hey Dad.” I’m really happy to be talking to him after two months.

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