Page 31 of Sunshine

They stare at each other, some silent conversationstreaming between them. I look down at my dirty white Converse, a quiet shame bubbling through me. I never should have asked for this.

Whatever passes between the boys must not go the way Wells hoped, because soon Jason’s firing another pass through the tire swing, the tip of the ball slamming into the edge of the black rubber with a loud smack. He groans, cursing under his breath as he stalks over to pick it back up again. Another surge of dread courses through me, and just as I’m about to offer up another out for all of us, I realize Wells is watching me. “Let’s just . . . let him stew in his feelings for a bit. We can get you on a horse.”

I consider it. “Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His frown deepens. I can’t help but look back at Jason, but Wells keeps going. “Layla, you want to ride a horse. And I said I’d help you do it. Plain and simple.”

His words are an arrow piercing through my cloud of doubt. The screen door slams again, and we turn to find Mrs. Bennett with a tray in her hands. “I’m going to leave this right here,” she hollers as she sets it down on a small table pushed up against the house, flanked by two rocking chairs. I imagine Mr. and Mrs. Bennett sitting in them on quiet mornings, warm mugs of coffee in hand. But truthfully, I’m not sure they get much use.

I’ve seen Mrs. Bennett a handful of times during my visits to the ranch, but she seems to keep her focus inside the house rather than outside of it. I’ve still never seen Mr. Bennett in the flesh, but I do hear him yelling from a second-story window from time to time. It’s the five Bennett boys who actively run the ranch, Brooks and Kasey taking on the biggest roles in the operation. There’s also a farrier named Hank who’s here once aweek to shoe the horses and a vet who comes around about as much to check up on them.

Rhett takes the lead on breaking the wild mustangs that are brought in. Wells helps when he can, but with school and football, he doesn’t have as much time to dedicate to it. Sawyer has been away at college all semester but he got home last week for winter break.

Of all the Bennett kids, Sawyer is the most unlike the others with his thick-rimmed glasses and pressed button-down shirts. I heard Wells tell Jason once that his passions swing toward the conservation side of the business rather than in actual cowboying. He’s also the first in the family to ever go to college.

“Thanks, Mom,” Wells shouts, then says to me, “You ready? Let’s ride first, and we can have some lemonade after.”

I nod. “Okay.”

Jason doesn’t bat an eye as I move to follow Wells toward the barn that sits about a hundred yards away from the main house. He just keeps hurling that damn football through the tire over and over again, punishing himself for the mistake he made last night. I wish there was something I could do to fix it, but I think it’s something he needs to work through on his own because not even Wells is having any luck.

Instead, I focus on readying myself to get on a horse, falling into step beside Wells with a swirling mix of eagerness and trepidation stammering in my chest. Inside the barn, he leads me to a stall where a beautiful golden horse with a white mane stands tall, and not for the first time I’m struck by howbighorses are. “This,” Wells says, “is Champ. He’s going to be yours today.”

“Champ,” I recite as I watch the horse greet Wells with anaffectionate sniff over the top of the stall door. “Is he friendly?”

Wells smirks. “You think I’d put you on one that’s not?”

I shrug. “For all I know, this is your way of getting rid of me forever.”

His smirk slips as he fastens his gaze on me. “Why would I want to get rid of you?”

“I’m not exactly sure you like me, Wells,” I say honestly. We may have developed a bit of a truce over the last few months, but I still think he’d rather I wasn’t around so much. Sometimes I feel like I’m encroaching on his and Jason’s “guy time,” but when I’ve brought it up to Jason, he assures me I’m not.

“I do,” Wells counters, looking back at Champ with a stormy expression. But it’s there and gone in a flash. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way, but I like you just fine.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a little bamboozled. “Okay.”

His gaze moves past me to the barn door. “We’ll get Champ out of the barn and I’ll show you how to saddle him. You can just watch for now—today’s lesson will be getting you comfortableinthe saddle.”

I nod, hiding my surprise that today sounds like only the first lesson in what might be many more. I thought I would maybe ride around the pasture, and that would be it.

He opens the door to the stall and slips a halter on Champ before leading him out. I follow behind, captivated by the way his muscles move and glide with each step. It’s not until Wells is loosely wrapping the lead around a post outside of the barn that I ask, “Is he a workhorse?”

Wells flashes a smile. “He was a racehorse—one of the best Texas has ever seen.”

“But not anymore?”

He shakes his head as he picks up a brush and gently glides it over Champ’s hide. “No, he retired just before his tenth birthday. He was sent to a sanctuary in Tennessee, but they shut down, so he ended up here about five years ago. Brooks wanted to keep him—he’s a good horse, and he helps us work some of the others.”

My eyes snag on his long mane. “He won’t be too fast with me, will he?”

Another smile tugs at Wells’s mouth. “No. I promise he’ll be gentle.” He finishes brushing Champ’s beautiful golden back. “In the spirit of the lesson: I brushed him to make sure his coat is free from any dirt from his ride yesterday when Kasey took him out into the pasture. We want to make sure the saddle isn’t uncomfortable for him now.” I nod, intent on absorbing everything. “This”—he holds up what looks like a folded blanket—“is a saddle pad. It eases the strain from the saddle.” He lays it over Champ’s back, the blue fabric fraying along the edges from use.

“Does the saddle hurt him?” I ask.

“No,” Wells answers. “Not if you put it on right.” I watch as he straightens the pad until it rests evenly over Champ’s spine, just behind his shoulders. And then he hoists the saddle up and over, positioning it over the pad. He walks me through fastening all of the straps and belts that hold the saddle in place, and then he picks up a small pile of leather straps. “This is the bridle. It goes over his face.”

My brows bunch together. “What does that do?”

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