Page 5 of Ride the Sky

Loud whoops and hollers intercept my attention.

I shift my gaze, tracking the kids as they leap from their horses with overexaggerated dismounts.

Cowboys, I think in irritation. Everyone thinks they’re a fuckin’ cowboy.

You’re not a cowboy the minute you climb onto a horse. A cowboy is someone who’s busted and bruised and gets back on. Who knows the risks, the danger, and does it anyway. Who dedicates their life to the horse, to the land.

That’sa cowboy.

“Alright,” I call out, getting the attention of my class. “Get some water and listen up.”

The kids huddle along the fence line, lifting water bottles and sweating in the bright morning sunlight. Jimmy Ray mouths something to Grebs and signals to his horse with his thumb.

I stride toward them. “Gilmore, you got somethin’ to say?”

Gilmore’s sharp gaze finds mine. “That’s a bad horse. I’m not working with her.” He tugs on the reins of his chestnut mare, Beauty, jerking her head roughly. Terror fills her big brown eyes; she chuffs and backs away from him.

Fuck, no, he did not.

You touch an animal, a kid, or a woman on my watch, I will tear your arm the fuck off.

Hackles rising, I stare him down. “That’s the horse you were assigned. And we don’t have bad horses on this ranch. We have bad riders.”

The class snickers quietly. Gilmore drops his eyes to his boots.

I turn to the group. “Let me give you three life lessons at this school. One: You think you’re fucking good? You think you’re tough shit? Wrong. You ain’t. The best way to get better is hard work.” When I see a few nods, I continue. “Two: Did that fall hurt? Well, guess what? It hurts every damn time. There ain’t no one behind you with a pillow to catch you, so get used to it.” I pause, taking in their wide-eyed expressions, then say, “Three: Practice is over. Get the fuck outta my ring.”

I watch as the kids grab their bags.

“It’s the Younger School, man,” Grebs whispers to Gilmore as they head to the bunkhouse. “My dad says they’re tough.”

Tough. Fucking bullshit.

I’ve been a trainer before. I’m stern, an asshole when I want to be. But I’m not a bad trainer. I wouldn’t wish one of them on any cowboy. Especially one like Rand Younger.

Which is why I have to stick this job out. It’s either my school or Rand’s, and if I can keep any kid away from Younger’s bullshit, the better for them.

Without another word, I mount my blue roan mare, Pepita, and guide her into a slow canter across the ranch. Dust billows beneath her hooves as I leave behind our new expansion—or what we call the West Pasture. Last year, we bulldozed the chalets and everything on the land. After what happened with Reese, Ford wanted nothing to do with the chalets anymore. Who can blame him? Someone took his goddamn wife.

Since then, we’ve built another barn, a bunkhouse, and a small cabin to be used as my training school during the summer.Like I said, my brothers pulled strings to get this school going. Letting them down isn’t an option.

I slow Pepita to a trot, grinning as Runaway Ranch proper rises up. The sprawling lodge. A meadow of sunflowers. Glacial mountains and quivering spruce as a backdrop. Cowboys and staff on horses and ATVs. In the distance, the growl of a tractor.

Runaway Ranch is waking up. Opening day. The start of a new season.

It seems like just yesterday we were struggling to make a buck, to keep the ranch open.

Now it’s a million-dollar business. We’ve doubled our staff. Had a write-up inBridemagazine featuring the ranch as a top bachelorette party destination that damn near gave Charlie a heart attack. These days, the ranch can run without us. That’s a good thing, too, especially with all my brothers and their wives doing their own things. Although Davis and Charlie would never admit it, they’d work themselves to death if they could.

By the time I stable Pepita and stomp up the steps of my silver vintage Airstream, the sun’s high in the sky. I exhale slowly and push my way through the screen door I don’t bother to lock.

Inside, the Airstream is sun-cooked and stale. I drop my Stetson on the kitchenette next to an ashtray and a burnt-out joint then turn on the old radio. John Denver croons softly from the speakers. I pull open one of the tattered flowered curtains to let in the sunshine, and a moth escapes.

It’s dusty and threadbare, but I like my trailer. My brothers give me shit for living like a hobo. I got it at an auction for cheap. With the rodeo, I was always on the go, so something temporary made sense. Although with the school being open, maybe it’s time I rethink taking Ford up on his offer to move above the garage.

Maybe it’s time to rethink my entire fucking life.

After gulping down a cup of cold coffee, I shuck my sweaty rodeo school shirt off and change into my Runaway Ranch gear. Swipe aside the marketing material Ruby’s made for me. Tug a bottle of vodka from the cupboard. I grip its neck hard, my gaze going to the old coffee tin on the shelf. Forgetting about the drink, I give the coffee can a shake, rattling its contents as if to make me remember. As if to remind myself I haven’t made it all up.

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