Page 67 of The Older Woman

Margo, good girl that she was, calmed down right away. It was unlike her to get worked up like that. Out of the three horses we had on the family farm, she was easily the most mellow and easy to handle. When I caught sight of the pasture through the open barn door and spotted flurries of snow dancing on the early winter wind, I realized right away what was wrong.

“I swear, girl,” I said, a smile on my face. “You’ve always been afraid of the snow—ever since you were a dang foal.”

Margo snorted, her big, dark eyes situated on the open door, as if on guard. With her white mane, golden coat and powerful muscles, Margo was about as gorgeous as horses came.

“Well, let me tell you about a concept I learned back in college. It’s called exposure therapy. You ever heard of that?”

Margo kept her eyes on the snow as I hopped up on a nearby worktable, clapping my hands onto my knees.

“It means that if you’re afraid of something, like spiders or the dark, or in your case my fine-coated friend, a little snow, the best way to get over it is to expose yourself to it a little at a time.”

Another snort, timed perfectly to appear as if she were dismissing the concept altogether.

“Now, now,” I said, holding up my gloved hands. “I know it sounds a little crazy on the surface. But trust me—I think it could do you wonders.”

I hopped off the workstation and headed over to the barn door. I looked out to the huge stretch of pasture of our Colorado farm, the Rockies rising in the distance. The grass was dusted with snow, the air chilly enough to make me pull my shearling coat a little tighter.

“See? Nothing to be worried about. Just a little fresh winter powder to invigorate.”

I couldn’t speak for Margo, but I was eager as hell to get out there. I’d spent the last few hours holed up in my room going over legal documents, trying to make heads or tails of the convoluted legalese within. Some fresh air sounded like just the thing to get my mind right.

Margo, on the other hand, didn’t want to budge. I turned, putting my hands on my hips.

“Alright, girl. Lucky for you, I’m not above a little bribery now and then. So, how about this; we go out there for a little while and when we get back, I might let you have a few of those apple-oatmeal treats you can’t get enough of.”

Margo let out another snort and stamped her hoof. She was responding to my gentle tone more than anything, but sometimes talking to her felt like negotiating with a misbehaving toddler—a massive, furry toddler.

I stroked her mane a few more times, making certain that she was calm and ready to be taken out. When I was confident Margo was good to go, I went to work strapping on her riding gear and leading her out of the barn.

Another cold draft hit me as I stepped out, snow curling on the wind. I buttoned my coat the rest of the way, pulling the collar up against the back of my neck.

“Kinda chilly out, huh?” I asked Margo. “Well, it’ll be good to get out, stretch those legs of yours a bit. Don’t want you getting fat on us, right?” I gave her haunches a pat before shutting the barn door.

I turned my attention back to the trail. The sky had darkened in the short amount of time I’d been in the barn, the western distance over the mountains having grown a few shades dimmer. It was enough to give me pause and wonder whether or not it was a good idea to take Margo out after all.

“Don’t tell me you’re going for a ride, Bee?”

I didn’t need to turn to recognize the English-accented voice as my dad’s. He approached out of the corner of my eye, leading one of the younger horses back to the barn.

“Why, don’t you think I’m up to it?” I flashed Dad a smile.

Dad approached, dressed in his usual outfit of rugged jeans with an equally rugged fur-lined denim jacket, a gray page cap on his head and light brown boots. Dad was tall and strapping, with the same sable hair and light green eyes as mine. Most of my other features, like my lean, dancer’s physique, were from Mom.

His face was weathered but handsome. I watched as his eyes narrowed as they often did in an expression of intelligent scanning. Dad was an interesting man, a perfect blend of the English sophistication of his place of birth and the outdoorsy ruggedness of his chosen home in the States.

Dad allowed himself a small smile. “You wouldn’t ever catch me saying something so ludicrous, love.” He adjusted his hat and turned his attention toward the horizon. “Only that the weather’s looking a bit rough. Phone says that we’re due for a bit of a snowfall here in a short while—as if those mean-looking clouds aren’t all the indication one needs.”

“They’re still a ways off,” I said. “Besides, I wasn’t planning on going out for all that long, just a quick trot around Wheeler Hill then back down. Shouldn’t take any longer than thirty minutes.”

My father regarded me with a bit of skepticism before turning his attention to the clouds once more, as if they might’ve eased up in the last minute.

“I know better than to try and talk you down once you’ve set your mind to something, Bee.”

I winked. “That’s right. And it’s what you love about me.”

He laughed. “That may be the case. But it’s also the trait of yours responsible for these gray hairs I’ve sprouted over the years.”

“That and the fact that you’re not getting any younger.” I smiled and nudged him with my elbow as I spoke, letting the old man know I was only messing around.

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