Page 12 of Total Jane Wreck

“Obviously,” he quips, “I’m way more dilettante than cowboy, but I ride every morning if I can. Always on Copper Cash.”

Heaving a sigh, I stand. “Speaking of morning, it almost is one. I should go to bed. The horses are early risers. That means I am too.”

“Suit yourself,” Chet says. The firelight plays wild over his face. Anger, loneliness, resignation—they all crash together like debris during a storm. I slip away without another word, his gaze heavy on my turned back.

Inside the trailer, I dump my boots by the door and shuffle into the kitchenette, pouring tap water into a chipped coffee mug, which I’ll place on my nightstand. The stillness inside is dense and a little thrilling—every creak and click of the cooling metal frame makes the place sound haunted. Brushing my teeth, I gaze at my reflection in the tiny mirror. Eyes red from wind and smoke, freckles jumping out against my pale skin like constellations. I look tired but not unhappy.

Soon, I’m lying in bed, trying to drift off. A flicker threads through the gap in my curtains. It’s the light from the firepit, plus Chet’s reading lantern. I inch the curtain open just a crack. Chet’s still sitting in front of the flames.

He’s so still. For a moment, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then, as if on cue, his hand moves to rub at his ankle. He resumes reading the final pages of Escape from the Springs. I watch him for a solid minute, maybe more, curious and a little concerned.

But am I concerned for him, or for myself?

Chapter Six

Poor stupid dupe! Cover your face and be ashamed! Blind puppy!

The next night, after a long day of caring for the horses, chatting with Axel Rose, and doing my best to avoid Chet, I text Brontë: “You up?”

Her call comes two minutes later. I answer on the first ring. “Tell me something only Brontë would know,” I say, already grinning.

She matches my punchy tone. “In middle school, we staged a school cafeteria sit-in, demanding that they go vegetarian. But you and I were the only two protesters who showed up.”

I laugh. Instantly, something loosens in my chest. “I still feel bad for the thirteen-year-old versions of us, sitting on that sticky floor with all the abandoned, smooshed-up tater tots.”

“We were so cute and pathetic,” says Brontë. “So, how’s it going? Have you adopted a herd of wayward stallions yet?”

“Not quite, but almost,” I reply. “Mostly I’ve been bonding with a misunderstood mare while steering clear of my brooding boss.”

Brontë snorts. “Love the alliteration, but tell me everything. Wait, first—are you lying in bed or upright? And are you in pajamas, coveralls, or actual people clothes?”

“Do a Monet lily pad T-shirt and ripped jeans count as actual clothes?”

“I’ll allow it. Proceed.”

I tell her everything, from the moment I shadowed the horse trailer through the gates, to the part about meeting Chet and our conversation around the firepit.

“Jane!” she cries. “Your boss is the Chet Edwards, and you puked on his billionaire-worthy shoes?”

“That’s right. Why? Have you heard of him?”

“Of course,” Brontë says. “Most people have. He and Birdy Banks are this beautiful Instagram couple who everyone else wants to be. Not to sound insensitive,” she adds. “I mean, since she has cancer and all. But last I heard, she’s in remission. From the photos she posts, you’d never suspect she was sick. Dewy complexion, shiny hair, like someone from a Neutrogena commercial. And Chet is her perfect counterpart—dark and brooding, always wearing a scowl while she’s a ray of light.”

I remember what Chet said when Miss Adele was unexpectedly delivered to his doorstep. That Birdy was intent on making his life miserable. “Well,” I tell Brontë, “there may be trouble in paradise.”

***

Chet is around more than I thought he’d be. Even though it’s his horse ranch, I’d expected him to hide away inside, staring at a computer all day. Instead, I spot him most mornings, walking the fence line and watching the horses while his coffee mug emits steam into the mountain cool air. Occasionally, he attempts to make himself useful. And he’s not hopeless; surprisingly, he can read a horse’s body language better than most first-timers. But there’s something missing in the way he touches them.

One morning I watch him brush Copper Cash with the focused, pressured efficiency of a man who has spent his life solving problems by throwing his very best effort at them. The brush drags. Copper Cash’s skin ripples in protest, one ear swiveling back like a slow accusation.

I can hear my mother inside my head. “Slow hands, Janey. Let the horse come to you.”

When I lean over the fence rail, the wood’s warm from the morning sun. “Try the curry comb,” I call. “He’ll tell you when you’ve got it right.”

Chet doesn’t look up. But a minute later, he switches combs. Copper Cash’s tail swings once, loosely, like a sigh.

By late afternoon that same day, I’ve got Miss Adele and Freckles in the ring together, coaxing them into something resembling a truce. After putting them back in their stalls, I turn the corner. The clang of a bucket echoes through the barn corridors. There’s no one in the ring or the main aisle, but I hear the hiss of water and the slap of wet feet against concrete from the wash stalls.