Page 35 of Not Our First Rodeo
So I’m surprised when Beau asks, “What happened to the paintings?”
I almost think I dreamed it, but then Beau coughs, and when he shifts his hand up to cover his mouth, I realize he’s still awake.
“What paintings?” I ask, even though I have a pretty good idea which ones he’s referring to.
“Our paintings.”
The ones we made at that drunken paint and sip party. The portraits of each other. The ones that hung over our bed ever since. The ones I took down after he left, unable to look at them anymore.
“They’re in the attic.”
Beau is quiet for a moment, only the sound of his ragged breathing and the howling wind cutting through the silence. “Why?”
I consider not answering him, or at least not telling him the truth, but I’m so tired, mentally and physically. This is the longest stretch I’ve gone without vomiting in the last month, and I’m exhausted from growing organs all day.
So the truth slips out, raw and unfiltered. “I couldn’t stand to look at them and be reminded of another way I’d failed.”
Beau rolls over onto his back, his head still in my lap, but it’s too dark for me to make out much besides his shape. Even in the dark, he’s so familiar. “What do you mean?” He sounds more alert now.
My heart beats in my chest, and I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice. One that I’ve been dancing around my whole life, avoiding no matter the cost, and now I’m considering just…falling.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The words are there, pressing against my throat, begging to be spoken. But if I say them, if I let them out, they’ll be real.
I exhale, slow and unsteady. Ragged. Then, finally—
“I failed at dance,” I say out loud for the first time ever. It’s a thought that’s been going round and round in my head since my injury, that Ifailedat the one thing I’d been working my entire life for, but this is the first time I’ve said it aloud. “I failed at dance. And then I failed to keep my baby alive. And then I failed at my marriage. And I would lie awake in bed at night and stare at those damn paintings and be reminded of how I failed at that too.” My breath comes out heavy now, jagged. “I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Elsie,” Beau says, sitting up.
I cut him off. “No, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I just want to go to sleep. Please.” I hate the way my voice breaks on the last word. How brittle and broken I sound.
And Beau, because he knows me better than anyone else, knows it too. He’s quiet for two long heartbeats, but he finally says, “Okay, Els. Let’s go to sleep.”
He lies down then and waits for me to lie beside him before wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. With his mouth in my hair, he says, “But just so you know, I don’t think you failed at any of those things. The dance floor, the canvas, and especially our baby, were lucky just to be touched by you, for however long you had them. Not all endings are failings. Some are just chances for us to start over.”
Calvingseasonisofficiallyover, which means I can finally focus on horse training again. Each of my family members has their own job here on the ranch. Mom and Dad handle all the big-picture duties of owning and managing a ranch, although they have a lot more help now that they’ve officially made Morgan ranch manager. Cooper is a ranch hand and basically floats wherever he’s needed day-to-day. It works for him since he’s easily bored and needs variety, which can often be hard to come by on a ranch. Cheyenne does horseback riding lessons part time and works part time in town, doing various jobs that she never keeps for long. I spend most of my time training and rehabilitating horses. We have additional ranch hands and a few seasonal workers, but during busy seasons, we all chip in wherever needed.
Now, I stop in front of Sugar’s stall, and she eyes me warily. She’s warmed up to me a lot over the past few weeks, but every day, without fail, when I walk up to her stall, she looks at me with distrust. I don’t know everything that happened to herbefore she came here, but I want to kill the person who instilled this much distrust in a horse.
“Hey, Sugar, how you doing today?” I ask softly, extending my hand in her direction.
She huffs air through her nose, staring at my hand for a moment before coming close enough to sniff it. When she does, I extend my other hand, holding out an apple chunk, which she hastily nibbles. Sugar, true to her name, loves sugar. I tried rewarding her with carrots at first, but she quite literally turned her nose up at me, so I switched to apples early on. She really loved it when I brought strawberries, but I have to give her those in moderation since they’re higher in sugar.
Today, we’re going to attempt riding, and if it goes well, Sugar is going to get all the damn strawberries she wants.
“You ready to go for a ride, girl?” I ask her.
She nuzzles my hand again, looking for more treats.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’ll get more in a bit.”
I open the stall slowly to avoid startling her and keep one hand on her neck, moving up and down in slow motions as I hook the lead to her halter. We’ve practiced this plenty of times now, even on days we don’t leave the stall. I wanted her to get used to the sound and the feeling of it before we moved on.
With gentle movements, I lead her out of the stall. We’ve done this too. We’ve gone out into a round pen and a pasture, and I’ve led her on walks so she knows the way.
She’s calm as we head for the big barn doors.
“Good girl, Sugar,” I say softly, gratification swelling in my chest as she follows my lead. A month ago, she would hardly let me touch her, and now she trusts me enough to follow me out of the barn.
