Page 1 of Touch the Sky
Chapter 1
Jacinthe
Ididn’t think I’d die choking on an egg salad sandwich, but as mymamansays, it’s not up to us to question the plans the good Lord has made.
If a bearded old man in the sky is responsible for my death by white bread and mayonnaise, I’m not sure what’s so good about him. I don’t evenlikeegg salad. I haven’t eaten all day, so I snatched the first thing I spotted at the gas station while fighting to fill the tank up in time to get home for my farrier’s appointment.
I can see La Grange Rouge—the very literally named red barn my family runs our trail riding business out of—up ahead. The rusty hue is a stark contrast to the rolling Laurentian Mountains of Québec that cradle the pastures in mottled shades of green tinged with the slightest touch of yellow now that September is rushing in.
Or at least, that’s what I imagine the mountains must look like today. At the moment, I’m too busy trying not to choke to appreciate somemauditleaves.
The gravel driveway crunches under my truck’s tires, and I get a glimpse of Léon’s rusty old farrier rig waiting in the yard. I cough, squeezing the steering wheel with one hand while I flailfor what’s left of my takeaway coffee from this morning. I lift the soggy cardboard to my mouth, and when the cold dregs hit my tongue, all I can think is that the last thing I’ll ever taste is gas station eggs and stale caffeine.
The coffee helps. I let out another hacking cough as the clump of egg sandwich slides down my throat like a hairball stuck in a drain. My eyes water and my stomach lurches, but at least I can breathe again.
I blast through the open gate and hop out of the truck, not even bothering to grab the keys before I hustle over to Léon’s ancient beast of a pick-up. If I made it here fast enough,Mamanwon’t have had to come down to the yard. She was still in bed with all the curtains drawn when I left this morning, and I promised she could take it easy today.
Actually, I madeherpromise she would take it easy. She needs the rest, no matter how much she tries to convince me she doesn’t.
I promisedmyselfI wouldn’t let my meeting at Balsam Inn this morning get in the way of that. I might be making a childhood dream come true and opening an inn with my two best friends in a matter of weeks, but my mom and the farm are still supposed to come first.
I curse under my breath when I come around the other side of the truck and find her standing there in a slouchy old grey sweater and some faded jeans instead of the pajamas she should be lounging around in up at the house.
“Maman!” I call out in French. “I’m here! It’s okay. I’ve got this.”
She smiles at me, the lines around her eyes and mouth crinkling as she squints in the afternoon sunlight. She looks a little pale, but she seems steady on her feet. Her salt and pepper hair is pulled into a fluffy ponytail that’s nearly as thick as some of the horses’ manes.
I didn’t get her massive hair genes, but I’ve refused to let my thin bob get any longer than my chin since kindergarten, so it’s not like it matters much anyway. I’ve known since I was a little kid that I prefer to admire long hair on pretty girls rather than deal with the hassle myself.
“Salut, Jacinthe,”Mamansays, still beaming.
She at least seems to be in a good mood, even though it’s my fault she had to leave her bed.
“There’s someone you need to meet,” she adds in English.
Before I can ask what she’s talking about, the clip-clop sound of hooves on the cement aisle inside the barn fills the air. A second later, Nana, our oldest and gentlest mare, emerges into the sunlight. Despite being well into her teens, her creamy white mane and buttery palomino coat still dazzle enough to make her look like she should have a unicorn horn jutting out of her head.
My gaze slips past her pretty face and gentle brown eyes to land on the person holding her lead rope.
That person is not Léon.
The woman lifts her free hand to shield her eyes as she brings Nana closer. There isn’t a cloud in the crisp blue September sky, and the woman coming towards us seems temporarily blinded as she waits for her eyes to adjust from the dimness of the barn, which gives me a couple seconds to look her over.
She’s taller than me. My friends would tease me and say that’s nothing special since almost everyone is taller than me, but this woman isn’t just physically tall; she has tallenergy, like she has no problem taking up all the space in the world as she waltzes out here with my horse, like there’s nothing weird about a random butch I’ve never seen before showing up out of nowhere when I was expecting the same grumpy old Frenchman who’s been shoeing for our farm since long before I was born.
There’s no way she’s not gay, not with that kind of swagger. The baggy jeans and faded Dickie’s t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up over her bulging shoulders are just a bonus.
“I’ve checked her over,” she says, still blinking at the sunlight. “I’m all good to get started.”
She’s got no trace of a Québécois accent, which explains whyMamanis speaking in English.
“Is there somewhere you—oh.” She comes to a stop when she spots me, Nana lumbering to a halt at her side. “Hey.”
She has one of those short on the sides and long on the top haircuts. A few dark strands of her wispy bangs are falling into her eyes.
I tried getting a haircut like that the summer after I graduated high school. That was a decade ago, and I made the mistake of going to a salon instead of a barber shop. The hair stylist kept insisting what I wanted was too ‘boyish’ and that I’d look better with a ‘cute pixie cut just like Michelle Williams.’
I don’t know what pictures of Michelle Williams she was looking at, but I ended up more like a deranged rock troll than a cute pixie. I’ve stuck with a plain, simple, can’t-possibly-fuck-this-up bob ever since.
