Authors: Mandy Hubbard
I slice a glare in Landon’s direction. He’s standing in the entry to the empty stall, his lanky, all-too-muscular body a silhouette against the fluorescent fixture hanging behind him. The dust kicked up by my work swirls in the light hugging his body.
I wish I could make out his expression, to figure out if it’s the same sneer he gave me that first day back at school last fall. When he broke my heart.
I smirk, saying, “Ha, ha, ha. You must think you’re super clever.”
“Actually, I do.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You really wound my ego.”
I roll my eyes. “ ‘No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.’”
He drops his hand back to his side. “Are you quoting
Hellraiser?
”
I blink. “Um, no?” I turn back to the pitchfork, hoping he buys it, and toss another scoop into the overflowing wheelbarrow. I should have emptied it already, but this is the last stall.
“Since when do you like classic horror movies?” His voice has that old familiar drawl to it, that same twang I loved when he whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. His family is from Texas. They moved to Washington State six years ago, but he’s never let go of the accent.
“Since when do you care what I like?” I scoop at a pile of manure near his toes, daring him to stand still as it slides dangerously close to his battered Justin cowboy boots. He doesn’t move. “I mean, I was
just
getting used to the silent treatment.”
“Meh, I got bored,” he says.
Bored. I scowl. “I’m sure there’s a
real
flag somewhere in desperate need of your allegiance.”
I scoop up another forkful of soiled bedding. Maybe he thought he’d get away with just waltzing up, that I’d somehow forget what he did, like I’d fall at his feet at the first sign of his interest.
When I look up at him again, he hasn’t budged, he’s just chewing on his lip. He licks his lip, and for a second I forget I’m staring, thinking about how it felt when we’d kissed, when he’d traced his tongue across
my
lips. When he grins, I realize he’s caught me.
Ugh. I should not be thinking of how good he is at kissing. Actually, scratch that. I should be thinking of how good he is at kissing
other girls
. That made it pretty easy to stay angry. Like he did in the halls the first day of school last fall. I wore this adorable Zac Brown Band T-shirt because he said they were his favorite band, and I was practically bursting with excitement to see him after a few days apart … and then I saw him, but it didn’t go the way I’d pictured.
He was leaning in to kiss
her
, while I stood there dumbfounded. He knew exactly what he was doing because midway through their steamy makeout session, he saw me staring, a strange gleam in his eyes as he watched the way I unraveled. It was like he enjoyed watching me shatter, just like little boys love burning ants with magnifying glasses.
And it sucks to be the ant. I am
so over
being the ant.
“Nah, you’re a little more … lively.”
I snort, shaking my head. Lively. Yeah, I could show him lively.
“What?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. The effort makes his muscles bulge. He probably practices the move in his mirror in the hopes of using it to ensnare his next summer fling.
I toss the pitchfork onto the heaping wheelbarrow. “Just leave me alone, okay?” I grab the cart’s handle and yank.
But he doesn’t move, and I back right up into him, our bodies colliding. Instead of stepping aside, he grabs my elbows to keep me from knocking him completely over, and then actually removes me from the stall and slides me into the aisle, like I’m a kitten that’s run into his path.
Then he turns and easily pulls the overladen cart over the bump, onto the smooth cement of the aisle. The stall door screeches as he rolls it shut.
“I still have to put pellets in there,” I start.
“I’ll get it.”
I stare at him, unwilling to believe he’d volunteer to take on even a tiny portion of my workload without wanting something in return. “Well, you just go zero to sixty in about five seconds, don’t you?”
He flashes me a wolfish smile, the one that makes him seem half-dangerous, half-sexy. But now I know what really lurks beneath all those muscles and cowboy swagger, and his smile is no longer so attractive.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, tipping the rim of his cowboy hat back far enough that I can see into his intense brown eyes. He’s … irritated.
Good.
I narrow my own eyes and match his look. “The silent treatment, to mockery, to doing me favors,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Before you turned on the roller coaster, you could have at least warned me to keep my hands and feet in the car at all times.”
He huffs. “Can’t a guy do a girl a favor?”
“No.” I laugh, and not in a pretty way. “Not you, anyway.”
Dang. I had wanted to be aloof. Unaffected. I’m screwing it up.
He shrugs, totally unbothered by my visceral response. “Fine then. Do it yourself,” he says. But he doesn’t move out of my way or open the stall door either. Instead, his eyes sweep over
my now-dirty polo shirt, down my legs, and then back up again before he smirks. “What’s with the getup?”
I grit my teeth and check out my outfit. I’m in my Serenity Ranch polo, as required, along with my jean shorts, but I have lime-green leggings underneath, and my cowboy boots don’t match any of my clothes—they’re powder blue. It’s like my outfit is a mullet—business on the top, party on the bottom.
“Can’t wear plain old shorts in a saddle, you know that,” I say, like he’s being stupid. “It pinches.”
“Right. And regular jeans would just be too …”
“Boring?” I say, throwing his words back at him.
“Uh-huh, and being a freak show—”
My anger explodes. “What do you want, Landon? Hurting me last year wasn’t enough and now you’ve gotta waltz in here and insult me?”
Crap. I wasn’t planning to admit how much he hurt me. I’m ruining all of this. Bailey’s going to laugh me out of our cabin later.
In response, he crosses his arms and waits as if he was the one to ask the question and he’s expecting an answer, but I have nothing else to say. And then he just shrugs and walks away, whistling an all-too-familiar tune.
Oh say can you seeeeeeee
.
Ugh.
An hour later, I’m tightening the cinch of an old Crates barrel saddle, the one I adore because it doesn’t creak and squeak like the newer ones used by the guests. I step back, leaving the stirrup still hooked over the horn, and wait thirty seconds, watching the mare’s stomach.
She exhales and I reach in to tighten the cinch. “Gotcha.”
“Uh, hi.”
I whirl around to find a guy in faded overalls and a snug red T-shirt, unfolding a scrap of paper. He’s probably twenty or so, with a mop of curly brown hair barely contained by an SR-monogrammed hat.
“Hi,” I say, dropping the stirrup back down on Zoey’s saddle. “Looking for someone?”
“Sorta?” He scrunches up his nose. “A horse, actually.”
“Really?” I glance over his outfit again. It’s a little more mechanic than cowboy.
“Well, not the horse exactly, but the stall. For”—he glances at the paper again—“Musa.”
Realization dawns. “Ah. You must be the handyman.” I extend my hand. “Mack.”
“Like the truck?” He smiles and it’s a little goofy, kind of lopsided.
“Like Mackenzie,” I say. “I’ll show you where the stall is. We moved Musa out to the corral when his door broke.”
“Cool,” he says, picking up the toolbox at his feet and following me down the cement aisle. “I’m Adam, by the way.”
“Worked here long?” I ask, running my fingers along the series of steel rods comprising the stall fronts. Most of the stalls are empty, the horses either being ridden or relaxing out in the corrals with Musa.
“A week, actually. I’m just doing it for the summer. I’m on break from University of Washington.”
“Oh cool. The summer temps kinda stick together, you know.”
“Why? Should I be expecting the permanent employees to give me a hard time?”
I shrug. “I mean, not really, but they’ve got all year to really gel, you know? They can be a little clique-ish.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, uh, anyway … what are you studying at UW?”
“I’m premed,” he says, swinging the toolbox as he walks. I blink as his words sink in, and he must catch my reaction.
His smile is sheepish. “I know, I don’t really look like a doctor. I’m hoping that will come later.”
“Sorry, I didn’t …”
He waves my apology away. “Nah, I get it. This is more me,” he says, motioning to his handyman getup.
“I was kind of thinking one of the
Super Mario
brothers,” I say. “What with those overalls and red shirt. You just need some big white gloves and a ridiculous mustache.”
He laughs. “And a brother named Luigi.”
“Exactly.”
The smile melts away and he gets a faraway look. “His name is Louis, actually. I’m half Italian. Dad’s a contractor, so that’s how I picked up the skills for this gig. Let me tell you, he is
thrilled
that all his forced child labor has readied me for such a glamorous summer job.”
I giggle. He’s kind of goofy, in a way that reminds me of my cousin. “If it makes you feel any better, I have exactly zero qualifications to be anything other than a barn minion.”
He takes in the stalls and horses surrounding us, as if trying to decide how much my job sucks. “Do you hate it?”
“It’s pretty awesome, actually,” I say, pausing to touch the soft, velvety nose of a palomino yearling. “I mean I just got to the ranch last week, but I was here last summer too.”
“Well hey, if you came back, it can’t be all bad.”
I walk another dozen feet. “Anyway, this is the stall.” I point to the door, at the spot where the roller has pulled out from the wood, causing the whole thing to sit crookedly. “I kind of broke it yesterday.”
He wiggles the door. “Do you turn into the Incredible Hulk when you’re angry?”
“Maybe,” I say. “I have to get out to the ring, though. I’ve got a lesson starting in a few minutes. If you need help finding your way around this place, let me know.”
“Sure. And thanks.”
I leave him there, surveying the damage, and return to my horse. I unclip the cross ties and put her halter around her neck. Then I grab the bridle and slip it over her nose, sliding the bit into her mouth and pushing the headstall up over her ears.
“Alrighty, let’s go.”
On my way out, I grab a helmet and snap it into place. It’s one of the few conditions of my working here. Mom wouldn’t let me within a ten-yard radius of a horse if I didn’t swear I’d wear one at all times, and Dad is the sort to back up any decision she makes. I didn’t bother telling them about how Mr. Ramsey has that whole cover-thy-bizarre-hair-up-in-the-presence-of-guests expectation. Actually, I haven’t even told them I dyed my hair to begin with. I kinda figure it’ll be back to normal before I see them again.
It’s not like I’m
actually
a freak show or anything. I don’t wear goth makeup or combat boots. I don’t spout Shakespeare or invent weird crap in my bedroom. I’m not a social leper, either. Bailey and I have our own clique of friends back home, and maybe we’re not A-listers or class presidents or anything, but we’re comfortable in the middle ground.
I just like clothes. At one point I considered getting into fashion, but then I visited Washington State University on a tour of colleges and fell in love, so I settled on a graphic design degree instead.
Last year, when I met Landon, I was like a tamer version of this. Jeans with a neon-pink tank and bangles, for instance. Maybe I’ve taken it too far for his tastes.
Not that I care, obviously.
I listen contentedly to the familiar
clip-clop
rhythm as Zoey,
the chestnut with the big blaze, follows me through the barn doors and out into the sunshine. It’s gotta be pushing ninety already, and it’s only one o’clock. Bailey and I are so totally hitting up the river later.
I pull Zoey to the side of the entry, then stop, tossing her reins over her neck. “ ’Atta girl. We won’t work too hard today, promise.”
Officially, my title is “lessons coordinator.” The real instructor sits in the middle of the arena, calling out commands. Mostly, my job is to supervise it all, coming up alongside the riders who are having trouble and giving them pointers. It ends up more like a babysitting job, keeping the younger or inexperienced riders from losing control or getting too scared.
“Every guest must feel they’ve been given individual attention
,” as Mr. Ramsey says. It doesn’t matter if they’re eight years old and won’t be filling out the comment card anytime soon. Marshall, the actual barn supervisor, doesn’t really give a crap about the guests. He’s more concerned about the horses. He’s been at the ranch for, like, eighty million years, though, so it kind of comes with being a decades-long ranch hand.
I nod at the guy manning the gate, riding through as he swings it open and Zoey steps into the dusty arena. It’s watered between every forty-minute lesson, but it won’t take long for the dirt to kick up and coat us all like we’ve been tossed around in a bag of Shake ’n Bake.
I swing along the railing, which is still empty, as the riders will show up at the last minute when the ranch hands bring out their horses. Years and years ago, before this place went yuppie, the guests would have learned to tack up their own horses. Now we do it for them, and they show up at the arena and climb aboard.
I circle the arena a couple of times at a walk, enjoying the easy sway of my horse. It’s amazing how quickly I settle back into horses after nine months away. I took lessons every week for five years, convinced someday my mom was going to sell our little rambler and buy a farm or something, but she never did. Doesn’t every little girl want her own horse? But it was not to be. So now I stick to the summer at Serenity Ranch, riding whatever horse is available, which thankfully often means Zoey, my favorite.