Page 15 of Total Jane Wreck

“Truth is,” I say, “I’m not sure if ‘horse training’ is even what you’d call it. More like—emotional support work. And stall-mucking.”

“Sounds like a metaphor,” River says. “For life, you know?”

“Right,” I laugh. “So, tell me about Sugar Pine University’s art scene.”

He shrugs. “It’s mostly ceramics, tattoo art, and then the stuff professors care about, like weird installations about gender or the environment. There’s a printmaking studio in the old cannery building. And a mural club that’s always in trouble for spray-painting the town water tower.”

“Sounds very cool,” I say.

“You should come by campus sometime,” River says. “There’s an open studio night every first Friday. Or better—” he checks over his shoulder, lowering his voice “—you could meet my friend Mal. They run the outdoor art co-op. And—don’t laugh—they’re basically obsessed with horses. They make these clay horses that look nothing like horses, but everyone pretends otherwise.”

“They sound delightful,” I say, wondering if River thinks we’re the same age. Does he realize I’m not a college kid?

His eyes crinkle up. “Jane, do you get to leave the ranch? Or is it like a horsey convent?”

“If I couldn’t leave, that would be more like a horsey cult. Either way, I come and go as I please.”

“Great, because if you like hiking—” he cuts himself off. “Actually, wait. How do you feel about backpacking?”

“Enthusiastic in theory. I’ve always wanted to try it.” That’s the truth. Reading Escape from the Springs has given me a romantic notion of backpacking. However, while I can ride all day, the thought of lugging a forty-pound pack up a switchback makes my knees wobbly.

“We have a club,” River says. “Well, not officially a club, but a group. And it’s not just for students. You should give it a try.”

“Thanks, River. I might just take you up on that.”

He grins at me again, flashing those dimples. “Great.” River looks past my shoulder, suddenly tensing. “I should probably get back to work. Nice talking to you.”

“Same,” I say.

As River walks off, I look behind me to see what caused that shift to happen. And there’s Chet, all dark and brooding, blatantly watching. He waves—if you can call it that. A single raise of his hand, arm bending at the elbow, like he’s a pedestrian begrudgingly acknowledging a car that let him cross an intersection.

What else can I do? I smile and enthusiastically wave back.

Chapter Eight

“Do you think me handsome?” …the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was aware. “No, Sir.”

Later, at sunset, I’m grooming Miss Adele in her stall. Chet comes ambling in.

Miss Adele licks her metal feeder, something I’ve noticed she does when she’s bored. I dangle a carrot over her nose. Without breaking her rhythm, she nudges it from my hand and just about inhales the thing.

“Silly girl,” I say, patting her side. “You should take your time and enjoy the treat.”

Chet stands just inside the door, hands docked on his hips. “How’s she doing?”

“Restless,” I answer, brushing Miss Adele’s mane. “I don’t know what her past owners did to her, but it’s like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thinking her new digs are too good to be true.”

Leaning against the stall, he watches the filly flick her tail. “How’d you learn to read horses so well?”

“Not sure,” I answer. “It’s sorta like I was born into a bilingual family, but our other language is equestrian. Horses talk with their ears, their eyes, even their breath. I suppose most people don’t notice, but for me, communicating with horses is just second nature.”

“That’s how I felt developing ShopSpot.” Chet stretches his neck, like he’s remembering the toll of sitting in front of a screen all day. “Writing code and programming and designing the thing—it all came so naturally.”

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“To ShopSpot?” Something elusive glides over his face, erasing any hints of resentment or regret. “Nope. That ship has sailed.”

“Okay. But couldn’t you—”