Page 92 of Saddles

“Hey, buddy. Where’s Ford?” There’s nowhere to hide in here.

Wait, his coat?

The flutter of a piece of paper sitting on the cold wood stove stops me before I leave.

Sawyer,

Don’t ever fall in love, kid.

It hurts too fucking much.

Your heart lives outside of your chest, and you have no control over the pain.

Lock it down.

I’m sorry I dumped this cabin on you. It was the worst and the best thing to ever happen to me. Keep an eye on Roscoe. He’ll try and run off ‘cause he always tries to find me.

Tell your daddy not to do anything stupid, this ain’t his fault.

I’ve failed too many times, and this time was the worst.

You know what? Do fall in love. Just don’t fight it like I did.

Like breaking colts, hold on, don’t let go, and keep your ass on that saddle.

Best of luck,

Ford

Agony rips through me. The buzz of my own frenzied pulse seems to drown the world out.

What did he do? Crumpling the note, I stuff it into my pocket.

“Roscoe, you need to do exactly what he doesn’t want you to.” I swing the door wide. “Go find Ford!”

His gray body is a bolt of lightning racing outside.

With his nose working side to side, he veers away from the barn and around the stout walls of the small cabin towards the woodshed.

A fresh pile of newly chopped logs sits next to the splitting block, but no Ford.

“Ford!” My throat is hoarse, screaming his name over and over.

Roscoe stops to bark at the approaching Arctic Cats, and circles back next to the discarded ax.

Then he leaps into a drift, disappearing.

It’s the same spot that Ford had tackled me that day I threw a snowball at him.

Dread shreds me when Roscoe doesn’t pop up.

As I get closer, I see a pair of boots, then legs.

Oh no, please no.

His bare chest is speckled with ice chunks from Roscoe bounding over him.

Is he breathing?

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