Sunset Ranch (8 page)

Chapter
Eight

Miguel smiled at me,
his teeth impossibly white, as he shoveled scrambled eggs and toast onto my plate. “Ready for the hayride today?” he asked, his dark eyes twinkling above his neatly trimmed mustache.

I groaned theatrically, looking across the bench at Dana, who was hunched over a bowl of Rice Krispies. “Bring it on,” she muttered, keeping her voice low. Jack and Sandra were poring over clipboards of papers at the other end of the table, muttering to each other over a big ledger.

Miguel stopped piling on the eggs and started spooning out fruit salad. “Miguel, that's good!” I protested, trying to slide my plate away.

“Need to build you up,” he said. “You'll need your strength for the guests this morning.”

“Yes, I will,” I laughed as he disappeared back into the kitchen. “So what's the route?” I asked Dana, salting and peppering the creamy soft eggs.

She lifted her bowl and drained the milk at the bottom. “Usual,” she said with her mouth full. “Out onto the road and up to the antelope site. The guests love seeing the antelope. Should be some big ones out there too.”

After eating, we pushed back from the bench and took our dishes to the pass-through window, then walked together out into the clear mountain air. I inhaled. I thought I'd never get tired of smelling it. We took a shortcut across the grass to the back of the stable, near the riding arena.

“Hey, how was the hike with Stephen?” Dana asked. “I never got to ask you yesterday.” She pulled her hair into a low ponytail as we walked.

“I know, who goes to bed at eight o'clock?” I teased her. “I couldn't believe you were asleep when I got back.”

She looked sheepish. “I know, I know. These five a.m. herd roundups are getting to me.” We could see Rick and Stephen now, hitching up Mark and Scott, the Belgian draft horses, to the big red-painted wagon.

Dana pulled me to a stop beside a big stand of juniper. It smelled like the gin my dad liked to drink in the evenings. “Well, how was it?” she asked again.

I smiled. “Really nice.”

“Aw! Are you guys, like, an item now?” She bent down and picked up a rosy, translucent pebble, rolling it between her fingers.

I felt a little flush creeping up the back of my neck. “I don't know. It was only one date. But . . .” Suddenly, I flashed on Zach's face, laughing in the kitchen. I shook my head and shoved the image away. I pulled a couple of juniper berries off the bush and crushed them in my palm. “We talked, he told me about his stress with Rick.”

Dana nodded. “I knew there was tension going on there. You'd have to be blind not to.” She paused. “I know there's something else, though. I can just tell on your face.”

“Well . . . I made tortillas with Zach yesterday. And it was fun. He was being nice for once. You know, not teasing constantly.” I let the berries drop and wiped my hands on the sides of my jeans.

“Oh my God, you have a crush on him too!” Dana's voice rose.

“Shh.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop beside me. “No. It's not like that. I like Stephen; I told you. Zach was just—” I floundered around. “I don't know why I even mentioned it.”

“Well, good.” Dana started walking again. “Because Zach just seems kind of arrogant sometimes—Stephen is so sweet!”

“I know—they're so different. They were getting on each other's nerves in the barn a couple days ago, arguing about the horses.”

Stephen looked up from Mark's harness, hearing our approach. He flashed us a heart-ripping smile, and Dana and I looked at each other significantly.

“Good morning, ladies,” Stephen greeted us gallantly. He looked especially adorable, wearing a blue T-shirt that showed off his pecs, with his auburn hair still wet from his shower.

Rick gave us the briefest of nods and went back to tightening one of the wagon's wheel bolts with a wrench. Mark and Scott already had their bridles on, and they slung their heads to look at us past their blinders. “Hey, boys.” I patted their massive, arching necks, feeling the power in the muscles there. One of them could have easily swallowed my whole hand if he wanted to. But their eyes were gentle and calm, fringed with thick, beautiful blond eyelashes, as if they were equine mascara models. “Are you guys excited for the hayride?”

Scott bobbed his head as if replying. Dana went around the other side to help Rick with the wagon wheel. Stephen was bent over, inspecting Mark's front left hoof. He straightened up and flashed me a grin. “You all recovered from the hike yesterday?”

“Are you kidding? That was easy,” I teased him. “You're the one who probably needs to recover.” I grinned at him in the morning sunshine. “Is Mark's hoof okay?”

“Yeah, he's got a big stone. I've got to get a hoof pick.”

“I'll get it.” I walked toward the stable.

“Can you get the big one with the red rubber handle?” he called after me.

“Sure!” The stable was dim after the bright outdoors. I paused, giving my eyes a chance to adjust. In the tack room I scanned the wall of neatly hung grooming tools: scrapers and currycombs and mane combs and bottles of tail detangler and rags for wiping eyes and little squeegees for squeezing the water out of furry coats after a bath, which always reminded me of the squeegees at gas stations for cleaning your windshield. There were all kinds of hoof picks, but I couldn't find the big red one.

I crossed to the feed-room door on the opposite wall. Maybe someone had left it in there. I opened the door and stopped. Zach stood with his back to me, a feed scoop lying on the closed grain bin beside him and a canvas bag crumbled in one hand. He'd obviously been getting Mark and Scott's lunch ready for the trip, but now his hands were braced on the windowsill and his head was bowed. His shoulders were hunched and shaking a little. I realized he was crying.

“Zach?” I whispered, almost dumbstruck. It was like witnessing a tornado or some kind of freak storm.

He whirled around at the sound of my voice, and involuntarily I took a step back. His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet. He quickly turned his back to me and swiped rapidly at his cheeks.

“What do you want?” he snapped, prying the lid off the grain bin and rapidly scooping out corn.

“I, um, was looking for the big hoof pick.” I cleared my throat. “Um, are you okay?” I thought about laying a hand on his back, but didn't move.

He dropped the scoop in the bin and pressed the lid back on, then gathered up the canvas bag and pushed past me without meeting my eyes. The door clapped closed behind him.

For a long moment I just stood there. Then I saw a scrap of paper lying on the floor by the bins. I bent down and picked it up. It was a photo, folded over and stained in several places, the edges curled. Slowly I unfolded it, smoothing out the creases with my fingers.

It showed Zach and another boy, a little older, bent over a barbecue on a patio, half grinning over their shoulders at the camera. Sausages and slabs of zucchini were arrayed before them on the grill. It must have been summer, because they were both tanned. Zach wore a ball cap, his hair fluffing out beneath it, and the other boy was shirtless. I looked closely at his face—he had the same ice-blue eyes and black hair, the same cheekbones. It had to be his brother, Dan.

I turned the photo over and over in my hands. Zach must have dropped it. Had he been in here alone, looking at it? I pushed the feed-room door open and passed through the tack room, then the stable, back into the sun.

Dana and Rick were at the back of the wagon with the backboard lowered, pitching clean straw into the back for the guests to sit on. The freshness was beginning to wear off the morning. From the guest cabins to the west, I could hear faint voices and doors slamming. It was almost time to leave. Stephen looked up from the strap he was adjusting on Scott's bridle. “Did you find it?”

I looked toward Zach, who was leaning against the wagon, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He glanced at me, looking supremely unconcerned. Any trace of what had happened in the feed room was gone.

Stephen cleared his throat expectantly.

“I, ah—hang on.” I hurried over to Zach and dug my hand in my pocket. “Zach, hey, did you drop—”

But before I could get any more words out, he held up the red hoof pick. “Looking for this?” he asked. His voice held the same merry, careless tone I knew so well.

“Yes, Stephen wants it for Mark's foot. He has a stone.” I felt discombobulated, as if someone had twirled me around with my eyes closed and then let me go. I reached my hand out for the pick, but he held it just out of my reach. “Zach!”

“What's it worth to you?” He grinned and held the pick a little higher.

“Give me that.” I swiped at it. He was teasing, of course.

“You're so cute when you're mad.” His eyes danced.

I resisted the urge to bite him, like I was still in preschool. Instead I lunged forward and grabbed his arm. After a brief tussle, I managed to wrench it from his hand.

“There.” I pushed my hair back from my face, trying to catch my breath. “You are the biggest pain.” I turned to go.

“You love it!” he called after me.

I stomped over to Mark without looking back and pulled at the blond, feathery fur around his hoof, pressing my shoulder into his warm flesh. I supported the smooth hard horn in my left hand, bent at the waist, taking care that my feet were to the side, out of the way in case the hoof slipped or he stamped it down. Dana had shown me the blue rings on her toenails from getting stomped. I picked fast, cleaning dirt and matted manure out from his hoof. I could see the tip of the big stone, but it was buried in other debris.

Mark's hoof seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. My wrist was aching. I jammed the hoof pick against the stone.

“I like that view.”

Zach was behind me again. I could see him upside down from my distinctly compromising position, bent double with my bottom sticking out.

“Don't be a douche.” Stephen stepped into my field of view.

Zach's brow grew stormy. “Shut up, Steve. I'll be a douche if I want.”

I pushed hard against the hoof pick, and the stone flipped out of the hoof with a clink on the ground.

With relief, I gently set Mark's hoof down and straightened up, yanking up the back of my jeans at the same time. “Thanks for defending my honor,” I told Stephen, eyeing Zach, who grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets, strolling away.

“A waaggooonn!”

Miriam, the oldest of the snarly-haired, out-of-control daughters, zoomed toward us, trailing her equally snarly-haired yet whinier sister, August.

“Hang on!” Dana swiped at them, managing to catch August around the middle like she was a stray calf, but Miriam slipped by her, making a beeline for Mark and Scott.

“Girls!” I called. “Miriam! Stop! Remember what I told you about running around the horses?”

Rick straightened up and gave me a look I could easily read. It said,
Get these children under control before they hurt themselves or one of the horses.

Miriam was now climbing up the back of the wagon like a chimp, totally crazed, as if she'd been given meth that morning instead of Cheerios.

“Okay, down you go.” Zach reached over the edge and lifted her up bodily, hanging on to her around the waist. She let out a screech like a girl in a slasher film. Zach lifted her over the wagon wheel as if she were a sack of grain and offered her to Stephen.

“Oh no, man, don't stick her with me.” He raised his hands and backed away.

“Where's her mom?” I looked down the path toward the cabins. As usual, she was walking up the path, chatting to Mrs. Coleman, totally oblivious to her own children and more than happy to let us do the work of not keeping them from killing themselves or someone else.

Zach didn't answer. He was examining the strap Stephen had been adjusting on Scott's bridle. “This is cracked, dude,” he said. “It's going to split.”

Stephen's brow immediately darkened. He leaned over to look at it. “It's fine.” He turned away.

Zach shrugged. “It's not. But that's cool—you just keep telling yourself that.” He picked at his teeth with a thumbnail.

Stephen faced Zach, looking stormy. “What are you saying? That I don't know what I'm doing?” He was getting red, and I could see a vein popping out on his neck.

Zach just gazed back at him calmly.

I looked from one to the other like I was at Wimbledon, but before anyone could speak, Rick slammed the backboard shut with a thump. We were ready to go.

We all loaded onto the wagon: Dana on the seat, Rick at the reins, with me and the two boys in the straw at the back with the Taylors and poor, sad little Mrs. Coleman. She looked even worse today, with gray circles under her eyes and uncertain strands of hair wavering around her head. When I got close to her to help her into the wagon, I smelled stale wine on her breath.