At least out here, there were no people. No kids squealing in joy at riding or crying with homesickness for parents.
No mom, aunt, or family.
Just me, the sky, and Forrest.
The only sound as I opened my packed dinner and used the plastic fork stuck to the lid of the Tupperware was Forrest as he sighed contentedly and returned to munching grass. I ate with him, devouring the delicious lasagne and swigging back the cider—sharing a few mouthfuls with the roan.
By the time I’d finished, my mind wasn’t so crazed and my heart no longer so worried.
My thoughts drifted to this afternoon when I’d driven past on the quad as Aunt Cassie taught her four new students. Hope had been assigned a bay mare called Biscuit who we’d rescued last October. She wasn’t big but was smart and gentle. A requisite for a beginner’s pony.
I’d expected to see her just as uncoordinated and terrible as the last time she’d been in our arena, but Cassie had separated her from the others, requesting her to canter and do figure eights while the rest barely stayed on at the walk.
I’d wanted to stop and gawk. To understand how she’d gone from a kid who couldn’t steer Binky to loping Biscuit around with her back relaxed, hands soft, and seat glued to the saddle like any seasoned rider.
On a circuit of the arena, she caught my gaze. Her helmet shadowed most of her face, but my back prickled as she transferred her reins into one hand and waved shyly as if afraid I’d yell at her like I did when she first arrived.
The guilt she caused magnified, and I stomped on the accelerator, kicking up driveway dust as I got the hell away from her.
Forrest ambled back toward me, grass sticking out the sides of his mouth as he nudged my knee with his nose.
“Wanna scratch, huh?” I stood with a groan, my young body already very aware of the long hours of labour I was putting it through.
Forrest wuffled, swinging his rump into my face for scratches. I dug my nails into his huge ass, scratching hard and fast—just the way he liked it. His head stretched upward as his upper lip pulled back from his teeth in an ugly expression of pure bliss.
When he’d first backed into me this way, requesting scratches on the big muscles, Mom freaked, thinking he was going to double barrel me. But I’d just watched his eye and knew he came in peace, not murder.
With dirt from his coat caked under my fingernails, I slapped his butt and pushed him away. “Enough. I have to finish my chores.”
He pouted, glancing at the moon as if to say it was inching close to midnight and the time for working was done. But I’d promised Mom I’d top up the feed bins for the horses and the splattering of sheep Grandpa John had bought last year, and I still hadn’t done it.
Feeding the four-legged kind I didn’t mind.
It was feeding the two-legged that drove me nuts.
“See ya.” Giving his velvet nose a quick kiss, I gathered up my empty container and bottle, and made my way back to the stables.
Mom had long since stopped badgering me about being home at a reasonable hour, which meant the farm was empty with everyone asleep. It was my favourite time of day where I could be myself with my complications and concerns and not feel like I had to hide.
On some summer nights, Dad and I had snuck from the house and slept beneath the galaxies in the front meadow. Mom would wake alone in the dark, find us both missing, and drag out blankets to lie with us as the sun rose.
I’d never admit it, but thanks to those unforgettable moments, Dad felt closer at this time of night—as if the veil between wherever he was watching was thinner and maybe, just maybe, he’d give me advice I sorely needed or free me from my vow to do whatever I could to keep Mom happy.
Not that I’d ever stop doing what I could for her—promise or no promise. She was the only person I permitted myself to love deep enough to hurt. Even Aunt Cassie and Grandpa John I held at arm’s length. I adored them, but I couldn’t let them take another piece of me when they died.
Heading to the truck parked by the stable, I dropped off the remnants of my dinner and pulled down the tailgate where six heavy bags of feed waited to be hauled into the barn.
Bending my knees, I hoisted one onto my shoulder and headed toward the shadowy building.
Even once I’d done this final job, I wasn’t ready to go home yet.
I needed open skies for just a little longer.
A hike into the forest where Mom and I had scattered Dad’s ashes was my next destination. Who knew? Perhaps I’d sleep out there beneath the tree where I’d carved our initials. Maybe hanging with ghosts would remind me to appreciate the living and take away my guilt at failing.