Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“And look how that turned out.” I chuckle, but the sound is hollow. “I wouldn’t go around reminding people that Logan and I were anything back in the day, if I were you.” That detail has slipped through the cracks of most people’s recollections, though I doubt it’ll take much to resurrect and for it to become a thorn in my professional side.
“As if I want people to know,” she mutters, easing in beside me. “Are you going to tell Dad? About the window?”
“I think it’s best we keep that to ourselves.” Especially after our spat earlier in the driveway. “But I can’t promise he won’t hear about it from someone else. Logan is all anyone’s going to be talking about for the next while, and both your father and I will be getting calls from concerned citizens as soon as they catch wind. Plus, Holly’s got a big mouth.”
“Sometimes it really sucks having you two for parents,” Isla huffs, more to herself.
“You definitely can’t get away with much around here.” I toy with strands of her silky hair, remembering how wispy it was when she was a baby. “Tomorrow, you’re going to go over and apologize to Logan—”
“But—”
“And then you’re going to work off what you owe. Annie can take it out of your pay. It’ll probably cost a few shifts. Good thing the market is extra busy between now and Christmas.”
Isla’s shoulders slump. “It wasn’t my idea,” she grumbles in a weak, last-ditch attempt to shed blame for the window fiasco.
“Right. You just followed along. Ask Logan how well that worked out for him,” I add before she can find another angle for an argument.
Her lips purse in frustration, but she doesn’t counter. She knows I’m right.
Just like I know telling my daughter that she’s not allowed to hang out with Holly anymore will only lead to a rift between us. “You need to use your brain. Don’t be game for whatever Holly comes up with. Because I’m telling you, one day that girl is going to get herself into a jam, and I don’t want you getting caught up in it.”
“She’s not a bad person, Mom. She’s not Jay Landry!”
“I know she’s not. I just wish she’d use her head more sometimes.” I pat Isla’s shoulder. “Get to bed. I’m right behind you.”
With sullen steps, she ambles away.
And my attention returns to the window across the field.
One thing is for sure: Logan’s return won’t be easy for a lot of people.
Me included.
Chapter 9
Logan
“Whoa, boy. Whoa.” I smooth my palm over the Appaloosa’s muzzle as I inhale the scent of hay and horse. “You must be Biscuit.” If the pale brown smattering covering his blond coat doesn’t confirm it, his restlessness surely does.
After a few beats, Biscuit’s side-to-side swaying slows and then settles.
“There you go. Good boy.” I scratch near his ear. “This used to be my horse Storm’s stable.” Biscuit is a lot like Storm was, according to my mom—itching to be free of his confines, impatient to run. Storm would kick the back wall with frustration when he wasn’t the first out. The hoof marks are still there, well-worn dents in an old barn that could tell a thousand stories.
We found Storm galloping along the main road on my tenth birthday. Dad rode him home bareback, hoping to reunite him with his owners. But no one answered the flyers we posted in town or the messages we left on local farms’ answering machines. Eventually, I claimed the gray horse as mine—a present from negligent owners.
The veterinarian put him at about twelve years old, and he was the best horse a boy could ask for. No matter which field he grazed in during the day—and we have many—he would always meet me at the fence when I stepped off the school bus. Emery and I used to race through the property—her, on an Arabian named Smokey that was fast as hell but could still never keep up with me.
My father found Storm dead in one of the back fields one unusually warm day in September, the year I turned twenty-nine. Heart failure, it was assumed.
Now, like everything and everyone around me, life moved on, and there’s a new horse in his place.
The sun was cresting when I emerged from my little apartment above the garage. A light shone in the main house’s kitchen and several robed figures sat around the table with their coffees. I kept going toward the barn. So far, people have been keeping things easy, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m cornered and grilled by well-meaning aunts and uncles. I’m not ready for it yet.
Horses, I can handle. We have three of them, and their stables always need cleaning in the morning. I never particularly enjoyed the task of shoveling shit before—who does?—but it’s funny what you miss when all choice is taken away.