Page 13 of And Forever
With all necessary tack in hand, I spin toward my horse. Rooney is still in the prime of his active years, a fact reflected by the way he shakes his mane and flutters his lips in anticipation ofgetting out of the barn. I hook the tack on a peg next to the stall door before reaching out to stroke along Rooney’s snout. He’s soft and warm under my touch, and I can’t resist stepping closer to give the side of his head a kiss in greeting. When I pull back, my eyes snag on his mane.
“What’s this?” I ask the horse, holding a braid between two fingers. Its parts are uneven, and the weave is unbelievably wonky. It’s definitely some amateur work, but as I look through Rooney’s shiny hair, I can see three more, each progressively better than the last. They’re all tied off with simple twine, the bows lopsided or half undone from Rooney’s head flicks. But there’s something endearing and sweet in the way the tan stands out against the currant-colored strands, as though begging to be noticed but not fully wanting to be flashy. “Who dressed you up, hmm?”
Of course, my horse doesn’t offer up the name of his stylist, and I shake my head at the absurd thought that he would.I really need to get out more,I think as I go through the motions of getting us ready to ride. It doesn’t take long before I lead him through the barn and into the early golden light. The sky is going to be a bright, clear blue today, making everything feel bigger than it is.
Rooney pulls at the reins, eager to get past the buildings, but I hold him back. This creature has never been aware of his size, and galloping between my cottage, the main house, and the various bunkhouses will make more noise than he realizes. We ease between them until we clear the first twenty yards of the meadow, then I turn him loose.
“Hi-yah!” I snap, letting out some slack on the reins and squeezing my thighs around his thick body, hitting behind his ribs with the heel of my boots in a pointed but gentle nudge. Rooney reacts like a bolt of lightning. He streaks through the sea of olive grass, charging so quickly I can’t restrain the laughter that bursts from my chest. It’s a giddy thing to have the wind whip through my hair, the world blurring past me. Joy bloomsinside me at the weightless sensation riding like this gives. I almost stick my arms out to the sides and pretend I’m a bird soaring through the sky. Instead, I lean forward and urge Rooney to find another gear. Effortlessly, he does.
I pay attention to him as we near the far tree line about three hundred yards from the center of the ranch, guiding him to slow his gallop until we’re in a comfortable trot. The sun’s over the horizon now, adding some warmth and light to the world except where shadows still cling. I relax in my saddle, dropping the reins to my lap, signaling to Rooney to walk, which he obeys instantly. He whinnies in a satisfied way, and I make a mental note to ask Cooper to take him out more this summer when he gets here in a month.
I’ve known Cooper practically my whole life. In elementary school, Cooper was my adversary in every game of freeze tag because he could run faster than me. He was also the nicest boy I knew; he’d get a second chocolate milk from the cafeteria and save it for me because they almost always ran out by the time I’d get to the front of the queue. He lived in town, where his family owned the bookstore.
Then, the summer before my freshman year of high school, Cooper showed up here, asking for a job. He had zero experience, but a lot of determination. Something about that tenacity struck a chord in my dad’s gut. He hired him to muck out stalls, haul hay bales, and clean the common areas the guests used. It was grunt work—the kind our ranch boss and regular employees loathed to take on, but Cooper did it without complaint. Along the way, he grew into himself, the physical labor changing his entire physique. When a few temporary ranch hands began showing him how to steer wrestle, I was helpless at keeping my crush at bay. When school started in the fall, I worked up the nerve to ask him to homecoming. We were together until the start of my senior year.
Cooper has worked at the ranch nearly every year since. We managed to avoid the awkward period after our breakup whenCoop took a season off to try the rodeo circuit. Once he came back, he slowly took on more and more responsibility. When I left for the rodeo, Dad promoted him to ranch boss. And when I came home, there was something reassuring about him still being here. It made my transition to overseeing the business side of the ranch easier.
The lake comes into view as I continue to think about Cooper’s arrival and Wilder’s current role as ranch boss. Wilder has seamlessly taken on the job, and the incoming staff for the busy season appear to respect him. There was a lot of buzz about his background as a champion bronc rider, but some of our employees also know him from the work he did at the Carvers’ place in Wyoming. It was news to me, but it reminded me of when Wilder bought Vesper for me, and I couldn’t stop the way affection flared at the memory.
We officially open for guests this week, and the ranch is ready to go. Between introducing Wilder to his daughter and the realization that my parents orchestrated the entire thing to bring him here, this year’s prep has been harder than normal. The day I asked my mom about it, she shrugged and told me it was for my own good. When I pushed for more of an explanation, she confessed she knew I was more unhappy than I let on.
“No one’s saying you have to make anything of it.” Mom held my hand and wiped a tear from her cheek with the other. “But you’re not the same Charlotte you were when you were racing. When you were with him. Your father and I were wrong to try and get you to leave that life. When Curtis heard that the Carvers had been employing Wilder and were selling their ranch, it seemed like the chance was there. For Winona. For you. Even for Wilder.”
Mom’s words have stuck with me, reminding me that having Wilder in my life again was never something I thought was a possibility. Even if I’ve wished for it every day since climbing into my truck and forcing myself to leave him.
He’s amazing with Winona, spending every offered opportunityto be with her. She’s always been a social, animated child. Quick with smiles and open to being with others who pay her attention in a genuine and endearing way. She isn’t shy, even if she can be reserved at times. I’ve watched how she’s embraced Wilder’s presence: first like a new playmate, sharing toys and playing games.
But this week, there’s been a shift between them that has caught the breath in my throat more than once. She’s allowed him to pick her up and walk with her down the dusty path to the chicken coop. She’s crawled into his lap on the porch with a well-worn copy ofThe Very Hungry Caterpillarto listen to it for the millionth time. But she hasn’t called him “Daddy” yet, despite my regular usage of it when referring to him. I even tried using my dad as an example of the relationship, but that almost led to her thinking of him as another “Happy,” so I backed off. She’ll get there someday, it’s just a huge adjustment. I know Wilder tries not to be bothered, but something in his face pinches sadly every time Winona calls him “Wild.”
Rooney shakes his head restlessly as we finish a slow walk along the shoreline. I thread my fingers through his mane before leaning forward toward his twitching ears.
“Are my thoughts bothering you?” I laugh. Rooney pulls, nodding clearly, and I clutch at my chest in mock-offense. “Well, excuse me. It’s not like I have a manual for how to deal with all of this.”
I lead him in a turn, heading back the way we came. My thoughts have started to muddle with the freedom I’ve felt since climbing on his back. A quick glance at my watch lets me know we need to be getting back.
As soon as we’re free of the trees, I let Rooney loose again.
My cottage smells like pancakes, and when I step into the mudroom, I can hear the distinct Australian lilt of cartoon dogsfrom the living room. I shuck my jacket before slipping out of my boots, then step into the kitchen to survey the scene.
A plate of pancakes sits on the kitchen counter covered with a cloche, a beautiful card decorated by Winona next to it. Her wiggly scrawl covers the front with little fingerprint animals that she clearly had help drawing. “For Mama,” it reads. At almost three, this is the first of my birthdays she’s really been able to help with, and I can’t help the tears that burn in the back of my eyes. I blink them away as I see a vase full of wildflowers sitting on the center of the dining room table, a simple twine bow wrapped around the bunch. They’re the same ones I regularly pick when out on the ranch, and I wonder if Ada took Winona to get them while I was gone.
Swinging my attention to the living room, I expect to see Ada and Win curled up on the sofa as the Heeler family completes household chores on the television. Instead, from my spot behind the couch, I see my daughter plastered against Wilder’s long, form. He has his arm wrapped around her and is partially covered by a pink, fuzzy blanket. Meehaw sits on his shoulder, and he’s watching the cartoon intently.
“We caught him on the porch not long after Winona woke up,” Ada whispers from my left. Her appearance has me jumping in surprise. “He was leaving those,” she gestures to the wildflowers, “so I invited him to have breakfast with us. That okay?”
Winona points at the television, her tinkling giggle making Wilder turn toward her and smile. It’s a soft, loving look, one I’m familiar with giving. My heart expands in my chest as I take in the domestic sight in front of me. My daughter and her father—the man I’ve never stopped loving—together.
“Yeah, it’s fine.” Ada wraps her arm around my waist when my voice cracks with emotion. It’s the best kind of overwhelm. “Look at them.”
Ada’s head rests against mine as she gives me a squeeze. “He put a star on her potty training chart, picked out her clothes,and helped her brush her teeth. Aside from flipping pancakes, it’s like I haven’t existed to them.”
The episode ends, and Wilder removes Meehaw from her perch, returning her to Winona’s grabby hands. He reaches for the remote and turns the television off despite her protests of, “One more, please!”
“I think that’s enough for now,” he tells her gently. “Your mama should be home soon, so let’s make sure everything is cleaned up, okay? It’s her day.”
Winona lets out a sigh, then she wiggles free of the blanket and stands. The tears I’ve kept back return with full force when I see her hair. Twin wonky braided pigtails cascade over Winona’s shoulders, secured with a pair of emerald bows.
My gasp draws Win's attention, and she comes running over. It's pure muscle memory that allows me to stoop and catch her in a big hug.
