Page 22 of Saddle and Scent
I hop off the rail, startled into action. There’s no room for breakdowns here.
If I lose it now, I’ll never get it back together.
I march back to the house, stepping over a discarded horseshoe and a sun-bleached beer can that predates my birth. Once inside, I kick off my muddy boots, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and root through the boxes on the kitchen table. Under "Aunt Lil's Kitchen Shit," I find a battered spiral notebook and a stub of pencil. The cover is stained with something green and alarming.
I open to the first blank page and write, in block letters:
DAY ONE:REPAIRS
- FENCING (ALL)
- BARN ROOF (LEAKS IN MULTIPLE SPOTS)
- FEED (REPLACE ASAP, CHECK EXPIRY)
- TOOLS (MOSTLY BROKEN, SOME RACOONED)
- WATER (TASTES LIKE METAL, FILTER?)
- PICKLES (GET VET TO LOOK AT LEG???)
- CALL MOM (DO NOT)
I stare at the list.Underline "DO NOT" twice for emphasis.
Then I add a line:COFFEE. UNDERLINED THREE TIMES.
This is how you survive, I guess. Small steps, even if the next one is over a cliff.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that going into town is non-negotiable. I’ll need tools, lumber, feed, and a truly industrial amount of sugar if I’m going to last even a week.
I look down at myself: old pajama pants, a tee shirt advertising a defunct punk band, hair in a state best described as "feral raccoon chic." I briefly consider changing, but the odds of impressing anyone in Saddlebrush are, frankly, less than zero.
I toss the notebook onto the pile, grab my wallet and the keys, and jam my feet back into the boots. They’re still damp. There’s a family of earwigs living in the left toe. I shake them out onto the porch and apologize to the universe.
The air outside is different now—sharper, as if it’s waiting to see if I’ll come apart before I hit the highway.
I walk past the barn again, because, of course, Pickles is at the gate, waiting. He pins his ears and attempts to bite my elbow as I pass. He misses, and I give him a pat for effort.
"I’ll bring you something good," I promise, then regret it.
Promises are easy to break.
The truck starts on the third try, coughing black smoke into the blue sky.
The road to town is lined with wild roses, their scent more subtle than the aggressive perfume of the Alphas from yesterday, but just as persistent.
The drive is short—Saddlebrush is only five miles from the ranch—but in those five miles, my resolve hardens.
I don’t know how to fix a ranch.
I certainly don’t know how to fix Pickles, or myself, or the legacy that clings to every warped floorboard of the old house.
But I do know how to make a list and show up.
For today, that will have to be enough.
By the time I reach Main Street, I’m ready.
