Page 48 of Saddles

Ford clears his throat. “I’m not sure. We can call Wade and ask if it’s clear all the way out for the chopper to get in.”

I can see just enough of his jaw to watch it clench.

Does he think the same? He’s so hard to read.

“Can I help feed her? How much hay does she get?” I’d rather focus on the horse than the prospect of leaving…and all the trouble it’s going to be once I’m back in the real world.

“Sure. She gets two flakes of alfalfa, and she’s probably ready for a new square of grass.” He holds up the empty water jugs. “I’ll take care of the pump and the bale. I bet she’d like a scoop of grain from you too. You’ll be her best friend.”

As he predicted, Pepper bobs her nose towards me when we step into the barn.

“Hi, pretty girl.” I hold up my palm again for her to sniff.

She wastes no time pushing against my fingers and dropping her head against my chest.

“See? BFF forever now.” Ford squints his eyes with a smirk and starts filling water.

After he shows me where the grain is and tosses in the feed, a shine of sweat shows on his forehead as he unbuttons his jacket. “I’m gonna haul in some wood while you’re out here. Holler if you need me.”

Roscoe watches him leave, then sits on a haunches near the door.

“You’re not dumb are ya boy? That snow is deeper than you are tall.” Scooping another handful of pellets, I let Pepper eat from my palm.

There’s something therapeutic about having them here. The animals don’t judge.

In fact, they both make me feel special, like they’re choosing me.

Roscoe cocks his head, then trots over.

Feeding a horse with one hand, and petting a dog with the other…I can’t think of a more serene moment.

“Sorry, girl. It’s all gone.” I hold up the empty container as proof.

When I step out into the glaring light of the sun, I feel rejuvenated. On instinct, I look around to see if I can spot Ford, but I don’t.

Where is he?

A crack echoes across the meadow. Then another.

What is that?

Roscoe leads the way, guiding me to a shallower path through the snow.

Ford has his shirt off, splitting wood rounds he’s pulled from the shed.

Damn.

I don’t think I’ve reallylookedat him since that first morning I woke up here.

His muscles ripple beneath the dark lines of ink as he sets another chunk on the stump. Broad shoulders narrow to a “V” where his jeans cover the dimples at the small of his back.

When he raises the ax and drops it with another sharp thud, it does something in my belly.

I can’t resist.

He leans over to adjust the halved piece of wood.

Just as he straightens, I get a lucky hit with a loosely packed snowball.

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