Page 77 of Wild Eyes
The sign from the road saidWild West Ranch.The logo depicted a saddle in a rope frame, but as I drew nearer, I saw a piece of paper tacked to the bottom with duct tape.
On it, and clearly drawn by a child, a similar logo with a unicorn inside the frame. The title that curved around the bottom saidSparkly Turquoise Unicorn Ranch.
It made me laugh as I stood there staring at it. Although I barely know Emmy and Oliver, I could tell she drew it, and her big brother wrote the words for her. I reached into my big boho purse to search for my phone, wanting to take a picture of it. Something to look at and remember this place by when I’m gone.
But of course, my phone wasn’t there.
So I settled for running my fingers over it and doing my best to commit it to memory. The endearing simplicity of it. The charming lack of pageantry.
Rose Hill has proven to be all those things. And I love that about this place.
About West.
I watch his strong hands tug the orange twine from the bale, and I sigh before forcing my feet to move into the barn.
“Can I help?” I ask.
His shoulders jump in surprise as he turns to face me.
I swallow as I take him in. God. He really is allman. Head to toe.
He makes my mouth go dry.
“Sure,” he replies, eyes softening as he gazes at me.
We start off working in a quiet rhythm.
“Didn’t see you around today,” I eventually say.
“Were you looking for me, fancy face?”
I smile and shake my head down at the wheelbarrow. It seems safest not to answer that question, so I carry on checkingthe horses on my side of the barn and filing their feeders with the sweet-smelling dried grass.
“Since you’re avoiding the question, I started early to beat the heat. Then I picked up a new training horse first thing. Surprised you didn’t hear his angry whinnies and heavy hooves all afternoon.”
Now that he mentions it, I did. His voice comes out a little flat and a lot unlike him. So I press, hoping to get him talking about something he loves.
“Are most of the horses here not yours?”
“A few,” he says, turning away to his next stall. “Mostly they come and go. Someone hires me. Their horse spends a couple months here, which sets them on the right path for their next job. Sometimes I buy one I like, train it myself, and then sell it at a profit. Other times I get too attached to sell them at all. And now and then I get a”—his hands lift in air quotes—“problem horse that needs fixing.”
My brows furrow. “How does a horse become a problem horse?”
He shrugs, hands back in the hay. “Usually someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing has messed with their heads. Mistreated them. Problem horses aren’t born. They’re made.”
I find myself blinking rapidly, relating just a little too closely to this conversation about horses. So I switch gears as I turn to check on the next horse. “Fascinating. What else did you get up to?”
West doesn’t respond right away. In fact, his silence has me turning to glance at him. The tendon in his jaw flexes, and he gives his head a subtle shake.
“I went to visit Tabby. Then her parents. And then my own. Never know when it might be the last time.”
I swallow, not wanting to think about the terms I’m on with my parents. They may be awful, but sometimes I can convince myself they aren’t. It has to be a coping mechanism.
Even drunk, I could tell from his reaction last night that the news of Erika’s death had winded him.
“That was kind of you.” It doesn’t seem like enough, but it’s all I can think to say.
His head joggles as he steps out the rear door and onto the dirt path that leads to the back paddocks. “Maybe.”
