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“I’m building my own life now, and I’m my own person. Understand?”
He only nods, but it’s enough for me.
Lifting my chin, I turn on the ball of my foot and walk straight to the Jeep, climbing in without looking back. I hear the crunch of his boots on gravel, and I look away, out the passenger’s side of the Jeep.
For once, I’m equally happy the doors are off, because the last thing I care to hear is the sound of his voice.
What I do hear before he cranks the engine is the sound of Miss Gina’s delighted laugh.
3
Zane
Rachel Wells is her own woman.
I’m walking beside a tall, brown horse with my hand on his shoulder. A teenage boy sits upright, stock still in the saddle, watching silently as we circle the stadium.
The horse’s muscles ripple under his shiny black-brown coat, and his spindly legs lift in practiced steps, trained for racing around a track.
My mind keeps traveling back to Rachel standing in Miss Gina’s driveway with her blonde hair in those two braids, that sweatshirt falling off one shoulder, and her green eyes flashing with defiance like an angry pixie.
She’s Jayden Wells’s daughter.
It’s pretty much all I need to know.
It doesn’t matter how bright her eyes shine or how much she helps Miss Gina. Or how sexy her body is, those breasts, narrow waist, bare pussy…shit.
I clear my throat, quickly adjusting my jeans as I turn the horse.
I’ve fought to keep that image out of my mind. She was having a problem, for chrissakes. Am I going to hell for being aroused? Ultimately she was okay, and I can’t help it if she’s a fucking centerfold.
I also can’t help that her father is a lying, double-crossing, untrustworthy asshole.
He’d sit on our back porch with my parents, looking out at the bay and making big plans to turn the old home with the tin roof and wrap-around porch into a destination restaurant. I was only seven, but I can still hear him laughing full-throated when my dad suggested the name.
He seemed like their friend for a long time, until he ghosted.
“Howdy, handsome. That sure is a serious look on your face.” Sandra joins us on the other side of the horse, placing her hand on his side. “Good morning, Mark.”
“Good morning, Ms. Hightower.” The boy’s voice is high-pitched, right on the verge of dropping, and his eyes don’t leave the horse’s mane.
“Something on your mind?” Sandra peeps at me over the horse’s back.
“I’m good.” The last thing I need is Sandra and Gloria in my business. “Just planning my day.”
We make the turn and start back to the stalls as the boy counts the horse’s steps under his breath.
I started working here when I came back after my injury. The therapist said it would help me process my feelings, since I found talk therapy annoying. I didn’t like rehashing what happened. I didn’t like talking about losing a football career I’d just started to love.
Time passed, and I was able to relax. Then, when I got off the crutches and could move around more easily, I saw how far I’d come, and I asked Gloria if she needed extra help.
I like the equine therapy kids. I don’t mind their stoic demeanors or confusion about how to show emotions. I like thatthey’re not bullshitters. They’re straight-shooters, not afraid to say what they really think.
You don’t have to watch your back around them. Whatever they’re thinking comes right out of their mouths—at least the highly functional ones. The ones who work with me.
We’re back at the stall, and Sandra squints an eye up at me as she helps the kid off the horse’s back. “You’re not planning to leave us, are you?”
Another student is right behind Mark. She walks him to the door, pausing to rest her arm on it, waiting for my answer.
