Page 74 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I tug back.
“Besides, the quilt is already halfway stitched.” Wilma yanks harder.
“Excuse me?” I counter yank.
“Your mama’s been contributing to it since you were young, and his mama too. Baby pictures. A napkin from the Valentine’s dance where you tripped in front of him.”
We’re still playing tug of war with Hart’s shirt.
“You are not using my belongings. You are not narrating my life. And you’re not stitching together some imaginary romance with glitter glue and traumatic moments.”
I still have a scar from that fall.
“Mark my words, you’ll thank us when you’re walking down the aisle with Hart.”
“Go!” I free the shirt from their grasp and point at the tree line.
“You’re going to make such a feisty bride.” Faye sounds excited by the idea.
“Now.”
They don’t move.
“Fine. You know what, I’ll leave. I wanted to ride Onyx anyway.” I storm away. “And take your casserole with you,” I shout over my shoulder, and I swear Hope passes Faye something from her purse that looks a lot like my shirt from last night.
My body aches as I climb my beautiful mustang, but I push through. I’m a country girl, and riding horses is in my blood. I feel instantly better when we’re tearing through the openness and brush deep behind the lodge.
The rhythm of Onyx’s movement is soothing, and I feel the heaviness inside me lifting. The pounding in my head starts to fade, replaced by the steady motion of the ride and the wide-open space around me. Out here, in the quiet of nature, I can breathe. I can think.
And for the first time today, I feel... right.
I push out the thoughts of attending the rodeo and the matchmakers’ extracurricular activities. I let in the rich scent of pine and soil, the sounds of the wind whispering, and the chorus of birds.
I don’t stop riding until my heart and soul are bathed in the beauty around me.
Then I pull the reins and slow Onyx.
I close my eyes and let nature soothe me in a way I’m never able to do with the loudness of the world around me. It asks nothing in return. It doesn’t try to fix me. It’s a quiet company that’s patient and listens. This is where I hear my thoughts most clearly, and where I can sort my next steps.
A sharp crack echoes from the trees, followed by a deep splintering sound of wood breaking apart.
“This way, boy.” I click my tongue toward the noise.
The last thing I expect to find is Hart on our property, and certainly not with an axe in his hand.
His old denim shirt is damp from the afternoon air, and the way he swings the axe, with effortless precision, makes me stop.
Another thwack disrupts the stillness of the glade.
I’m not sure why I don’t break through the curtain of brush and kick his ass off my family’s land.
The stump cracks in half with a loud snap.
He mops the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
My bad dream slams into my head, followed by the matchmaker’s Love Quilt mumble jumble, and then my bucket list.
There goes my serene moment. All the emotions crash back into me.
