Page 62 of Everything We Give

“That there has to be another way aside from cramming two hundred horses into a small arena to manage the herds. Whoops!”

Reese’s boot skids across the mud and her arms fly out. I grip her elbow so she doesn’t fall.

“Thanks.” She rights her balance and I let go.

“That was close.”

“Yeah, it was.”

I don’t share her laugh when she does.

The rain wants us to run—we’re seriously drenched. Water sloshes inside my shoes—but we keep our pace steady. Neither of us wants to end up hobbling back to the car with a broken leg or sprained ankle.

It is just after noon when we enter the café, waterlogged and starving. We’re early, but fortunately, Manuel is there, eating lunch with friends. Reese orders a coffee and I drink a beer, feeling unsettled, but I can’t pinpoint why. The café’s owner brings us plates ofpulpo, boiled octopus doused in hot paprika on a bed of potatoes, a Galician-style dish. Reese is delighted. The smell turns my stomach.

We eat while Manuel and his buddies Paolo and Andre enlighten Reese with tales of the Rapa das bestas. They count their broken bones and show off their scars in a show of one-upmanship as they passionately describe their love for the horses that wander their hills. But the longer they talk, the more upset I get—both my stomach and my frame of mind.What is wrong with me?I think, irritated. Reese is smiling. She’s laughing at their tales. She’s asking about the necessity of the festival and a sudden realization comes to light. I know the angle Reese intends to approach in this story, or, at least, her opinions she’ll weasel into it. She doesn’t think the festival is a necessity to manage the herd.

But that’s not the point, I want to argue. It’s about tradition and our dependence on others. It’s about two species supporting one another.

After years of working toward this goal, I’m finally on assignment forNational Geographic. For an article I’m not sure I want my name associated with.

It’s after six when we arrive back at La casa de campo. We’re damp as opposed to drenched, and I want a drink, something stronger than a beer. I jerk open the front door, stepping aside at the last minute to let Reese enter ahead.

“What’s with you?” she asks when the door shuts behind me. “You hardly said anything this afternoon. Did I do something to upset you?”

I point a finger at her. “Be careful what you say in that article. Your words can decimate that village’s main source of income. Funds they use to care for the horses.”

She laughs, brushing me off. “As if I’m going to let you tell me what to write. Last I checked, I’m the writer on this assignment. You’re just the photographer.”

“But it’s my name, too, in the byline.” And I didn’t want to be the cause of any negative press. I sent my photos to the magazine because I wanted to share an unusual event steeped in history. Traditions are fading every day, and one day we won’t have this connection to history. As a photographer, it’s my role to document them, to help keep them alive.

Reese removes her jacket. “You better decide what you want to do, Ian. I’m still submitting my article by the deadline, whether or not you’re on the assignment.”

She looks at me, brow cocked and ready for a challenge, and I meet her gaze with a steely one.

“Ian.”

Reese and I both turn. I blink. “Aimee?”

She rushes over to me and I sweep her up in my arms. Warmth ripples through my rain-cold chest. “Oh my God, you’re here.” I squeeze her hard, dropping kisses all over her face. “What are you doing here?” I press my mouth to hers and kiss her deeply.

A throat clears beside us and I surface from the haze.

That’s riiiiight.Reese. She’s still here.

I lift my head, grin at Aimee, and wrap an arm around her waist. I pull her into my side.

“Aimee, this is—”

Aimee extends her hand at the same time. “Hi, I’m Aimee. Ian’s wife.”

Reese grasps her hand. “Reese Thorne. His ex-wife.”

CHAPTER 18

IAN, AGE TWELVE

Ian hovered outside his parents’ room. He felt no shame eavesdropping on their conversation. After what happened at the motor lodge yesterday, Ian had a list of questions longer than the roll of film he’d developed early that morning.

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