Change Rein

by Anne Jolin

  I let the vehicle pick up speed as I drive through the tree clearing towards the stables. While real estate may be what made me what’s considered a tycoon around these parts, my passion for horses keeps me sane. My parents still live on the ranch I grew up on in Coal Hill, approximately an hour’s drive from Edmonton, and although my property is much larger than theirs now, I work tirelessly to keep the same family atmosphere among the men and women under my employment.

  As of today, I own thirty-seven thoroughbred racehorses in various stages of their careers. Ten are currently racing and boarded at Hastings Racetrack. While the other twenty-seven remain on my personal grounds, some are too young to race, and others have long since seen their name in lights. However, unlike most of the rich jerk-offs at the track, I don’t sell my older horses to the highest bidder without giving a shit where they’ll go—a glue factory specifically being of concern. I keep them, all of my horses. When their racing days are over, they’re put out to pasture and ridden by my nieces and nephews, but never once are they sold.

  Horses are family.

  You don’t sell family.

  Charlotte, the barn manager, waves from her office window as I pass. Sliding my black Ray-Bans down over my nose, I nod once at her before turning left out towards the highway, no doubt to her dismay. We spent one night together a few years back, and sometimes, she wishes it were more than that. She’s a lovely woman, and while most men would love to bed or wed her, the case for me is neither. Frankly, she caught me on a bad night after one-too-many glasses of bourbon and the loss of one of my oldest horses. I was broken and lonely, welcoming the comfort of an old friend, although it became more than old friends that night.

  I’ve grown into the kind of man that doesn’t sleep around. It was perhaps a fault of mine for a brief period in college, but besides that, it’s hardly been my taste to bed women I don’t see a future with. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that the offers don’t come, but it seems hollow, and having come from a family with parents whose love seemed like the world revolved around it or would stop turning without it, that’s what I craved, but damned if God himself would see it fit to give or grant me that.

  More often than not, I take Street, my horse, out for a ride each morning before making my way into the office. The fresh air and the space narrow my focus on the agenda for the remainder of my day. However, like everything else in my life, the ability to ride horses has been overshadowed by the one thing constantly nagging at my brain. Come Sunday, it will hardly be of concern. For, within a week’s time, I’ll take the first step towards righting the wrong that consumes my normally unrelenting, focused brain.

  I’m a man familiar with getting what he wants.

  This would be no exception.

  “GIRLS!” MY FATHER’S VOICE BOOMS through the smaller barn, where I am organizing buckets for tomorrow’s Monday morning feeding.

  I pop my head around the corner of the feed room door, wincing at his second harsh call. “Geez.” I step into the aisleway, scrunching my nose up and shaking my head. “Right here.”

  “Yell a little louder, Daddy. I don’t think Hank heard you,” Aurora whines from a nearby stall, referring to one of our three miniature ponies. While Willy and Waylon are old but sound, Hank happens to be deaf and quite pesky, really—hence the reference.

  “Hardy har har.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m calling a family meeting. There’s something we need to discuss. Your brother is on his way over. Finish up and come on over to the house.” Pausing, he looks us both in the eyes from underneath the brim of his ball cap. “I mean it, girls. No dillydallying. This is important.”

  Instead of waiting for us to answer, he stalks from the barn as quickly as he entered it.

  “What in Heaven’s name could that be about?” my sister asks, leaning her hip against the stall she was cleaning, chucking her pitchfork into the wheelbarrow.

  Shrugging, I look at where Daddy walked out of the barn. “Not a clue.” We had dinner less than two hours ago, so what could have possibly changed in that short amount of time? Her guess was as good as mine.

  It was Sunday already. I’ve been home for a little over a week, and Achilles, my butt pillow, and I are settling in just fine. I’m not allowed to clean stalls, move hay, or lift anything heavy, so instead of feeling useless, I spend my days taking care of the smaller tasks, which are fewer and farther between than I remember.

  In the mornings, I was helping Aurora with the grain feeding, occasionally the turnout too, but after a few days of that, my back began acting up and I was put on even more modified duty: grooming horses, ordering new supply, and some free lunging of any of the horses that require exercise, including Chil. He hasn’t been ridden since my fall, and even thought I know that isn’t a good thing—for either of us—I can’t bring myself to ask anyone else to ride him. It’s only ever been me, been us.

  Twenty minutes later, Aurora steps into the feed room. “The stalls are done. You ready?” she asks, wiping the dirt from her hands on her jeans before shoving them into her front pockets.

  After lining up the last of the now-labeled containers on the shelf, I rest my hands on my hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” I follow behind her to the green gator we use to get around the property, huffing as I position the junk in my trunk on top of the elusive ass pillow.

  “Have you been into town at all?” she questions, driving the howling hunk of junk towards the house.

  Picking at the rip in the knee of my jeans, I fight against the urge to fidget. I know full well the actions will only serve to irritate both my injuries and me. “No.”

  “You’ll have to go eventually.”

  Rolling my shoulders back in an effort to exude more confidence, I shake my head. “To give the small town vultures a chance to pick apart what’s left of my dignity and career in person? I think I’ll pass.”

  “You’re only making it worse by hiding out. You’re becoming some kind of attraction by staying holed up here. They need to see you. They need to see it hasn’t broken you.”

  I don’t even consider answering her—for the simple fact I’m afraid to tell her it may have indeed broken me, at least more so than anything before.

  “I’m meeting some of the girls at the Sundance tonight. They’re doing karaoke. Come with us.”

  I open my mouth, an assault of excuses ranging from a sore ass to a headache on the tip of my tongue, but she abruptly pumps the brakes, turning almost fully in her seat to look at me.

  “Stop.”

  “Stop what?” I shrug.

  As she pokes my chest with her finger, she loses the battle with the moisture in her eyes. “Letting this become you . . .” She struggles with her words, repeatedly fluttering her eyelids. When the familiar blue stares back at me this time, it’s with more fire than she usually harbors. “You’re not this person”—she now waves her hand in front of me—“and you’re not the person in that article, either. So let them choke on their ignorance. Heaven is filled with redeemed sinners sporting crooked halos, and your sins or mistakes hardly stack up to those of others. None of us are perfect, London, so to Hell with the bastards. It’s not your job to make them understand. You’re not the asshole whisperer.”

  Clenching my jaw to ward the threatening tears off, I nod. “A saint, a sinner, and a cowboy—Lord have mercy, Daddy has his hands full.”

  “So, you’ll come?” she urges.

  I’ll admit I’m still furiously unsure about whether the idea is good, but my sister is a saint, and she just pulled her guns out for me. Seems downright unsisterly to tell her no.

  “I’ll come,” I say, giving in.

  Without any warning, she morphs back into her dominant personality and enthusiastically claps her hands. “Then let’s get this godforsaken meeting over with so I can laugh at your attempt to sing Shania Twain,” she deadpans, pressing the gas pedal down and lurching us forward.

  “I need you all to understand it hasn’t been a
n easy year,” Daddy says, pulling his Edmonton Oilers ball cap off and running his hand over his head.

  Uncertainty is rolling off him in waves, and that alone making us all uncomfortable. It’s unlike Larry Daniels to exude any emotion of the sort.

  “With the economy the way it is, people aren’t boarding their horses at stables like ours anymore.” He pauses uncomfortably.

  “What’s going on, Dad? Just tell us,” Owen rumbles, leaning back in his chair.

  Aurora pulls her chair around before resting a hand on his forearm. “Is everything okay?”

  “Daddy?” I prompt.

  He looks up at me from across the kitchen table as I lean my elbows onto the wood.

  “Share the weight.”

  “The barn has been running me into the ground. At the rate we’ve been going, especially with the cost of repairs to prepare for the coming winter, I would have to remortgage the property to keep us afloat.” The hit it’s taking on his pride to tell us this is waging a war of emotions on his face. “However, it would seem lady luck is on our side, which I like to think of as your mother watching out for us. A gentleman has approached me with another offer, but I want us to agree on it as a family.”

  Leaning his forearms onto the table, Owen furrows his brow. “What’s the offer?”

  “The assistant for a Mr. Tucker out of Edmonton called after dinner. It would seem her boss lost his stable to a fire yesterday.”

  Aurora gasps, covering her mouth with her hand at the same time I wince. I know what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too. Were any horses hurt?

  “Thankfully, no one was injured in the fire, but he’s in need of a property to board his twenty-seven horses that is available immediately. We are one of the few stables in the province with enough space and amenities for Mr. Tucker’s racehorses to continue their usual training and management for the winter during the time it will take him to build a new barn in the old one’s place.

  “While Mr. Tucker would employ his trainers and groomers, we will still be shorthanded when it comes to tending to that many horses as well as our own at once. We haven’t had a farmhand in years though. If we were to go through with the offer, I can look into hiring one, but until that should happen, it will require more work from all of us to maintain the property.” He pauses to look us all in the eyes. “You are in no way obligated to saddle yourself with this responsibility. If any of you are uncomfortable with this as a solution, we will not proceed. My children come before my pride.”

  Owen is the first to speak. “Next weekend is the windup for the rodeo out in Edmonton, and then I’m done for the year, Dad. I’ll bring the trailer over when that’s done and park it around back.” He tips his cowboy hat towards the man he mirrors so much. “I’m all yours, old man.”

  Laying her head on his shoulder, Aurora wraps her arms around one of his. “Me too.”

  “Me three,” I say, taking his hand in mine from across the table.

  My heart compresses at the thought of the man I love so much harboring this while my dreams bled him dry of money. Sure, Momma had life insurance. Daddy split it among the three of us and into separate trusts, but he never once let any of us dip into that if he could help it. He always said the trusts were a representation of our futures. The money was for us to buy houses and start families of our own with someone who loved us as much as he loved our mother.

  “I’ll call Mr. Tucker’s assistant back with our answer then.” The relief surrounding him is palpable in the air.

  The only thing more present in our kitchen is love.

  I’VE BEEN PACING THE LENGTH of this god-awful hotel room for nearly two hours. While patience has never been a virtue of mine, the lack of it in this moment feels like it’s trying to suffocate me.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tug at the knot in my tie and flick the top two buttons of my dress shirt open in an effort to promote breathing, as I seem to have forgotten how to do that as well.

  It was eager, or perhaps stupid, of me to have jumped the gun like this, but my emotions were a wreck. Reckless is hardly a choice word used to describe my personality, but in this moment, it is of the utmost accuracy. The unsteady roil of feelings trying to purge from my chest are scaring me, and I am feeding their starved attachments like a foolish child.

  My iPhone wails on the bedside table, a welcome interruption to the mental chastising rattling around inside my skull. I withstand the urge to lunge for it, instead picking it up and resuming my pacing.

  “Tucker,” I answer.

  “Good evening, sir. The call you’ve been waiting for came in a few minutes ago,” Lydia, my assistant, informs me.

  As I pinch the bridge of my nose, anxiety at the thought of this having not worked swarms me. Truthfully, I never expected the man would have to discuss it with his children.

  “And?” I snap.

  “Larry Daniels has accepted your offer.”

  I run my hand up to the top of my head, fisting it into my hair. Thank fucking Christ.

  “Wonderful. Thank you, Lydia.” Calmness makes its way back into my tone. “Please have everything scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. You can coordinate with Charlotte as she’ll need to be in the loop for transport.”

  “Of course. Will that be all?”

  Leaning my back against the wall, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, unbuttoning the remainder of my shirt. “That will be all. Sorry to keep you so late on a Sunday.”

  “Perfectly fine, sir. Goodnight.”

  I vaguely hear the line go dead before tossing the phone back onto the bed. There’s an energy building inside me that, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to burn off.

  I’m nervous.

  That’s another feeling I’ll admit I’m not used to, and the anxiety surrounding it is increasing.

  I need a drink.

  After unbuttoning my slacks, I let them pool on the floor, knowing full well I’ll stick out like a dirty shirt dressed like that in this town.

  After changing into a pair of Wranglers and a black t-shirt, I sit on the bed again to pull my cowboy boots on. Satisfied I can find a place to soothe my aching chest within walking distance, I forgo car keys and slide my wallet and my room key into the back pocket of my jeans.

  When I reach the lobby, I nod towards the eager hostess, who’s beaming at me.

  “How is your room, Mr. Tucker?”

  “Lovely, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Her eyes widen as I make my way over to her desk, and I withhold the urge to shake my head at her. “Manners make a gentleman,” my mother often reminded us children.

  “Is there anywhere nearby to get a drink?” I ask, politely removing any flirtatious vibe from my tone. Although, these days, most women can twist even simple kindness into something it’s not.

  The men who make them feel that desperate for affection are hardly men in my opinion. Weren’t raised by fathers like mine, I suppose.

  “Oh yes,” she sighs, her voice breathy. “The Sundance is just about a kilometer up the road—only bar in town. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.” I tip my hat towards her before making my way to the exit.

  “Mr. Tucker?” she calls out behind me.

  Stopping, I look over my shoulder, nodding for her to continue.

  “I’m off in just a few minutes if you need a date,” she purrs, suggestively propping her breasts on top of the counter.

  “Thank you for the offer, ma’am.” I smile as the thoughts form on my tongue. “I’ve already got a date though. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  The last thing I see before stepping out into the warm August air is the furrowing of her brow.

  Hell, I don’t blame her. The whole thing is confusing me too.

  The girl is right, though—just shy of a kilometer up the main drag, the familiar neon lights glow bright. It’s nine-thirty when I finally put a boot down on the beat-up hardwood floor. Heaven only knows what glass and brawls the grain in tha
t wood has seen.

  The bar is loud—exceptionally loud for a Sunday night in a small town, I figure. Nonetheless, my ears appreciate the twang and steel guitar coming through the speakers. My tense shoulders relax with the music.

  Resting my forearms on the bar, I lean forward and wait as a petite redhead makes her way towards me.

  “What can I get you, sugar?” she asks.

  Lifting two fingers, I nod towards the bar behind her. “Bourbon, please.”

  She pours the amber liquid into a short glass before passing it over the counter. “That’ll be twelve.”

  After passing her a twenty from my wallet, I shake my head as the pretty, young thing tries to give me change. Just as she’s about to speak, the knucklehead wobbling on his stool beside me pipes up.

  “R-e-e-d,” he slurs. “One more, baby.”

  I don’t know how much he’s had, but the woman before me hardly seems like she fits such a masculine name.

  “You’ve long since been cut off, Frank. Go on home.”

  She turns to walk away, but the good-for-nothing idiot reaches over the bar, grabbing her bicep.

  “Don’t be such a bitch, Reed,” he snaps.

  I wait for the fear to build in her eyes. He’s a big guy, and he’s absolutely had a few too many. But it never comes.

  “You have three seconds to remove your hands from my body, Frank, or I’ll have Mack haul your ass out of here. You hear me?” She leans into his face.

  I can’t fight the smirk on my face when he uncurls his hand and shrinks back into his seat.

  “Don’t you think you owe the lady an apology?” I ask, not looking up from my glass.