Page 58 of Untruly With You

I followbehind Hank’s horse. Wells follows behind mine. And because it’s just the three of us, it’s a silent ride aside from the nearby stream rushing over smoothed rocks and the sound of hooves digging into the steep path under us. Beneath me, my older brother’s horse seems restless, whipping his head around every few minutes, as if trying to shake his bridle off.

Three hours into the ride, the sky shadows with dark, rolling clouds. The wind, usually calm in our little valley, picks up enough that I have to push my hat down farther on my head so it won’t go flying off.

After a particularly rocky patch of trail, Wells’ voice pierces through the wind, unsteady. “How are you feeling up there, Dad?”

Hank says nothing.

“What exactly are we doing today?” I ask finally. I hadn’t bothered to inquire before we left, my mind already at full capacity, thinking about one thing and one thing only. By the time I wondered what the three of us could be doing without the other cowboys, the tense silence had already settled. I didn’t dare break it.

I look back at Wells, but all he offers is an icy stare.

The higher our horses climb, the rougher the trail gets. Along the way, I study the rocks along our path, keeping an eye out for rattlers or uneven rock. Above us, rain patters, striking the pines’ branches overhead and flicking the brim of my hat. I shift in my saddle, repositioning my denim jacket. The forecast didn’t call for rain.

Hank stops his horse at the crest of the mountain. Beyond us, the range continues into sharp peaks, their tips hidden by storm clouds. I pull up alongside him.

Wells does the same on Hank’s other side, again asking him how he’s feeling. Hank, again, ignores the question, keeping his eyes trained on the land below us—Silver Ridge’s green valley, dotted by barns and our family home. It all looks so small from way up here through the misty showers.

The muscles in Hank’s face twitch.

Wells doesn’t look at the ranch. Instead, he looks down at his hands, bowing his head as if in prayer. I can barely see his low-set brows from under the brim of his hat.

A roll of thunder echoes to us, and Duke’s horse steps in place quickly, again rearing his head back, those black, glossy eyes wide. He knows a storm is coming.

25

LAINE

My chest thumps alongin time with the roar of thunder outside the guest room window. With shaking hands, I hit the green answer button. In the call’s background, I hear overlapping conversations and distorted music.

“Heyyy, Ophelia,” I say, shaking my head at my singsong tone.

“Laine Rodriguez!” Thankfully, she sounds happy enough. “Can you hear me alright?” she asks.

“It’s a little loud, but I can hear you.”

“Sorry about that. Adam and I are at the Cannes Film Festival. But I wanted to check in while it’s a decent hour for you. Working with time changes can be so complicated. Anyway, I read the notes and draft you’ve been working on, and I think you have a solid foundation here.”

All at once, the tension I was holding unwinds like a string from a yo-yo. “That’s amazing to hear. Thank you,” I say through a relieved exhale.

"But—"

That one word winds that yo-yo right back up.

“I think you’re losing your voice,” Ophelia says. “Whilenone of the drafts arebad, per se, they aren’t reading like the articles I read from your college days. These are coming off a bit…distracted.”

Despite my best efforts at stringing some semblance of a sentence together, I come up short. I’mundoubtedlydistracted, seeing as how I’ve been harboring very real—scarily real—feelings for my best friend. I was just hoping that wouldn’t show in my writing.

“You said you had another interview lined up for today, right? How was that?”

There is hope in Ophelia’s voice, and it makes my chest tighten. I think back to my empty notebook, not a single quote or anecdote from Clive written. Maybe Ophelia won’t be able to hear the lying in my voice over the phone. “It went greaaaat,” I say, drawing the word out. What I hoped would sound like enthusiasm only comes across as desperation.

“You also said you would have three articles by the end of the week. How’s that looking?”

“You’ve already seen the article about what it’s like to work on the ranch, with the interviews with the owner and some cowboys. I’m almost done turning the interview with the cook into a fully fleshed story. Oh! And I have a handful of recipes he gave us the green light to publish. Plus, I have a good idea on where I’m headed with the story about the radio station.”Good ideaisn’t exactly the truth, and it probably doesn’t sound like it either, with the way my words tumble from my mouth, just as erratic as I feel.

After a too-long pause, Ophelia says, “I take it you won’t be done with the three articles tonight?”

My lungs feel tight. “No. But I think by the end of the week—”

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