by Susan Fox
Her family’d had chickens when she was growing up, and she’d loved them. When she’d suggested to Pete that they get some, he’d said no; they were messy and involved too much work. Last year, she’d bought an insulated storage shed and fitted it out with nesting boxes, roosts, and a workbench. With Dave’s help, she had added a large run extending out from the shed, fenced on the sides and on the top to protect from predators. She’d chosen the location so that the run included a few shrubs for shade. Once the coop was complete, she’d found online ads for rescue chickens, and installed her flock.
Her dozen hens were all that she’d hoped for: cheerful and bustling, entertaining, and good company. They were her family, her friends. These early-morning visits with them were always a nice start to her workday.
Her ladies were not meat chickens. Even when they were past laying age, she would never slaughter them. She had named them, of course. Now she murmured greetings and stroked feathers as she filled waterers and feed cans and collected eggs. The birds clucked and chirped, keeping up their end of the conversation. She netted six eggs, which she cleaned with a sanding sponge and placed in an old basket. They looked so pretty: medium brown, light brown, and a pale pinkish egg from Lucille, one of the Barred Rocks. Sally would give them to Ben. Eggs had become a staple of her diet—cholesterol be damned—but now that Corrie wasn’t around, Sally accumulated more than she could eat. “Thanks, ladies,” she said as she left.
Walking toward the trailer, she saw that Ben and his chair were gone. Tentatively, she went to the door and called, “Hello?”
No response. Probably he’d gone to check on Chauncey’s Pride. After putting the egg basket on his doorstep, she turned toward the paddock. As she passed the barn door, whistling came from inside: “King of the Road,” an oldie. She went inside. “Ben?”
“Hey there.” He stuck his head out of the door of her office.
“I thought you’d be checking on your horse.”
“Did that before breakfast. I was taking a look at your schedule.”
She kept a printout tacked on the wall by the desk.
“Those two horses you brought in last night are boarders, right?” he asked.
“Yes, their owners are coming for early rides.”
“Do we need to get their horses ready, or do they do it themselves?”
“I need to do these two. Their owners come out before work and want to maximize their riding time. But you don’t have to—”
“I can help with grooming, and muck out stalls.”
She frowned skeptically. “You can’t wield a pitchfork or a shovel with one hand.”
“Bet I can. Though not at a blinding pace.”
Wait a minute. Why was she having this conversation? She was supposed to send him on his way. “Ben, I put a basket of eggs on the doorstep of your rig. You should—” She intended to say that he should put the eggs in his fridge, load up his horse, and head away.
But he cut her off, with a smile and a “Much obliged.” Striding toward the barn door, he said, “I’ll put those away and be right back.” And he was gone, leaving her with her mouth open.
If she really wanted him to leave, she should run after him and set him straight. So what did it mean that she instead took Rambler out of the stall where he’d spent the night, tied him in cross ties, and began to groom him? And that, when Ben came back, she let him take over the grooming while she went to get Rambler’s tack?
As she saddled the horse, Ben got a wheelbarrow and a pitchfork, and stepped into the stall Rambler’d been in. “The other boarder’s the dapple gray you brought in?”
“Right.”
“What about the bay gelding? He’s been in a stall since I got here.” Ben’s voice, along with the sounds of a pitchfork being wielded, came from the open stall.
“Campion’s mine. He had a hoof abscess. It’s been drained, the vet filled the hole with hoof putty, and the farrier will be out day after tomorrow to replace the shoe.” Sally finished putting Rambler’s bridle on. “There you go, pretty boy. You’re all ready for a nice morning ride.” She took him out to the yard and tied his reins to a hitching rail.
Returning, she saw that Ben had mucked out the stall and was laying down fresh straw. She took Smoke Signals, the dapple gray, out of her stall and into the cross ties, and got to work.
As she and Ben went about their tasks, they chatted back and forth, with him asking her about the horses and her schedule at Ryland Riding. It was companionable. Kind of like when she’d worked with Corrie, but different because Ben was a man. Because Ben was Ben.
Disturbed, she led Smoke Signals outside and was tightening his cinch when a Jeep drove up with a man and woman inside. They were a twenty-something brother and sister who, together with their parents, owned a natural foods store in Caribou Crossing. After an exchange of greetings, they mounted their horses and rode off.
Sally checked her schedule. The chicken coop could use cleaning. Did she have time now? Yes, the next riders wouldn’t be here for an hour and a half. The four women, all moms who worked part-time, came for a ride at least a couple of times a week. They had nice lives, balancing work, recreation, and family.
Or at least so it seemed from the outside, from their easy smiles and the bits of conversation she heard. But Sally well knew that no one could judge the happiness of a marriage from the outer facade. Like an overly made-up face, you had no idea what lay beneath.
That reminder, that return of common sense, had her leaning on the open stall door and telling Ben, “Much as I appreciate the help, your top priority should be seeing a physiotherapist. You have one you see in Alberta, don’t you?”
“Sure do. How about Caribou Crossing? Is it big enough to have a physio or two?”
Absentmindedly, she said, “One of my students goes to Monique Labelle, who’s doing a great job with the girl.” If Ben drove home, taking it slow, he could make an appointment for a couple of days from now. “Once you see the physio, you’ll heal more quickly.” And healing, getting back to the rodeo, was what mattered to him, after all.
He used the back of his right hand to shove his shaggy hair from his brow. She saw the calluses on his palm. Rodeo calluses. She used to have them, too. Now hers came from pitchforks and shovels.
“You’re right,” he said. “I need to make an appointment.”
“Okay.” He’d agreed so easily.... “I mean, that’s good.” Of course it was good. Having him here might lighten her workload, but it wreaked havoc with her peace of mind.
Ben went looking for Sally, who had disappeared after their chat. Despite what she seemed to think, he did know how to look after himself. Rodeo was his livelihood, supplemented in the off season by working for a horse trainer. Rodeo had also been his passion since he was a little kid. He and Chaunce would be back on the circuit the moment his shoulder was healed enough for roping, though bronc riding might have to wait a while longer.
In the meantime, he and Chaunce needed to keep in shape. He was glad Sally had finally accepted his help, but her next booking was a ways off, so he figured she’d have time to handle the preparation herself. This seemed like a good opportunity to take Chaunce out.
As Ben went around the barn, he heard Sally’s voice coming from inside the chicken coop. Outside in the run, a few chickens pecked, scratched, and clucked. He eased the gate open and slipped inside, careful not to let any of them escape, then stood in the doorway of the neat little coop.
Sally had her back to him as, rubber-gloved, she cleaned roosts and nest boxes and chatted to another four or five chickens who seemed to be answering. He didn’t alert her to his presence, just enjoyed watching her, all cheerful and relaxed the same as with the kids she taught. Treating these hens like children, too.
She had a nice-looking flock, not that he was an expert on chickens. Half of hers were a blond color and the others had charcoal and white alternating bands.
Sally turned and saw him. Her hand flew to her chest. “I d
idn’t know you were there.”
“You name your hens?”
A flush colored her cheeks, making her look young and flustered. “They lay better when they have names,” she said defensively.
He suppressed a grin. It was probably true. Maybe not about the names, but that well cared for hens were contented and good producers. “They’re pretty. What kinds are they?”
“The black-and-white stripy ones are Barred Rocks and the apricot ones are Buff Orpingtons.”
“Buff what?”
“Orpington for the town in England where they originated. Buff for the color.”
“Learn something every day. Their eggs sure looked good.”
Sally folded her arms across her chest. “Are you heading off now?”
“Unless you need me to groom those horses in the barn, I thought I’d take Chaunce for a ride. He could use some exercise.”
“Oh. Um, sure, that makes sense.”
Her surprised expression made him think twice. “I can do it later. Want me to help with the next horses?”
“No. No, I was planning to do it. Go ahead.”
Before taking that ride, Ben went to his trailer, yanking off his grubby work boots before entering. He opened his phone and got on the Internet to look up the physiotherapist Sally had mentioned. Monique Labelle’s bio said that, among other things, she did rehab for sports injuries. He called her office, explained his situation, and the sympathetic receptionist said she’d squeeze him in this afternoon.
Whistling, he put on riding boots and went to get his horse. A quarter of an hour later, Chaunce strode eagerly down the road with Ben riding bareback.
“I’m seeing a physio,” he told his horse. “Maybe she’ll clear me to get back to roping practice, and Sally’ll let us use her spare ring.”
Chaunce bobbed his head like he couldn’t wait.
“Sorry, pal, but for now you’ll have to settle for a trail ride.” It was easy on Ben’s body and he did enjoy exploring the countryside. On an inside wall of Sally’s barn, she had a map showing a network of farm roads and riding trails. Yesterday, a rider he crossed paths with had told him that a number of the trails were on private property, but the owners allowed public access through portions of their spreads.
Setting Chaunce into a comfortable lope, Ben took a dirt farm road for ten minutes or so. He stopped at a gate in a fence, bent down to unlatch it, and guided his horse through. Latching it again, he noted the sign reminding passers-through to do exactly that. No farmer or rancher wanted livestock going astray. The new trail led through a grove of aspens, slim and lovely with their white bark and gently rustling leaves. At a walk, Chaunce negotiated the twists and turns until they came out at the shore of a small lake. A beaver dam cut off part of the stream that fed into the lake. There was no beach, and probably no swimming due to submerged logs the beavers had cut.
Ben swung off Chaunce’s back, dropped the reins knowing his well-trained horse would neither step on them nor stray, and walked closer to the bank. His boots sank into the boggy ground as he admired white water lilies floating among heart-shaped green pads. Dragonflies stirred the air with shimmery wings and ducks bobbed their heads beneath the surface of the water, hunting for food. It would be a nice spot for a picnic.
Did Sally ever take time off and go riding for pure pleasure? Did she picnic by a lake, maybe nap under the shade of an aspen? Or how about getting together with friends for a meal, or going to a bar to listen to some music, shoot a game of pool, dance the two-step the way she used to on the rodeo circuit?
She’d said she didn’t have time to go to town. Now that he was here to assist her, she ought to be able to enjoy some R&R. Preferably with him. He wanted time with the Sally who smiled at little kids, who whipped her buckskin mare around the barrels, who named her chickens and carried on conversations with them.
Why did that Sally go into hiding so often? Was it fear, because of something some jerk had done? Or might some of it be grief over Pete’s death? He’d seen how beaten-down his grandma was after she was widowed. But she’d adjusted over a period of a couple of years and rediscovered her joy in life. She’d even started dating.
Sally’d been crazy in love with Pete, but she had been widowed for three years. Maybe she wasn’t ready for sex with another guy—though Ben could always hope—but that was no reason she shouldn’t lighten up and have some fun. With someone other than her chickens. With a guy she could trust, who would never do anything to hurt her.
“That’s me,” he told Chaunce as he bent to gather the reins. “Now how can I make her believe it?” He mounted, using a stump as a mounting block and hating the awkwardness of his banged-up shoulder. Yeah, he could mount bareback from the ground, one-armed, but it would jar his shoulder. Much as it pissed him off, he had to be sensible.
“Sensible,” he said. “A sensible rodeo rider. Isn’t that what they call an oxymoron?”
Chaunce snorted and tossed his head.
It was nearing noon, so Ben headed back to Ryland Riding. It wasn’t a surprise to see Sally in the ring with a student. He remembered the schedule saying: “Amanda: lesson.” The girl looked to be about twelve. He raised a hand in greeting to Sally, who stood in the middle of the ring as her student trotted a little bay mare in a circle. The mom sat in the bleachers, body slanted forward, all her attention on her daughter.
Halting Chaunce, Ben watched for a few minutes and realized that Amanda had a prosthetic leg. He read signs of pain and frustration in her squinched-up brow and tight mouth. Her body language made him think she’d lost the leg fairly recently and was still figuring out how to deal with her new reality. He’d seen rodeo competitors go through the same process after a major injury. Most cowboyed up, handling it with the same guts they’d shown when competing, but a few let catastrophe defeat them. This kid was a gutsy one, it was clear to see.
Giving the girl some privacy, he dismounted and led Chaunce away.
Working at half his normal speed, he took off his horse’s bridle and groomed him, then let him out in the paddock. When Ben returned to the barnyard, Sally was saying good-bye to her student and the mom. Rather than help her with the horse, a task she could do faster than he, he decided to make lunch for both of them.
In the tiny kitchen of his trailer, he clumsily chopped onions and mushrooms and got them sautéeing, then he grated cheddar and jack cheeses. He whipped up those pretty eggs of hers, along with a splash of milk and some seasonings, and pretty soon he had an omelet cooking.
A glance out the window showed him that Sally stood outside the barn door, staring toward his trailer, looking puzzled. Probably wondering where her helper had gone.
Chapter Five
Sally stared at Ben’s trailer. He’d put Chauncey’s Pride in the paddock, rather than loading him into the trailer. Shouldn’t he get on the road? If he interspersed driving with rest stops for himself and his horse, he could cover a fair number of miles today.
She walked toward the trailer, intending to inquire about his plans and say a final good-bye. And if the thought of saying farewell gave her a pang of sorrow, that was only because it had been fun catching up with an old rodeo friend, not to mention having a helping hand. Hand, singular. But Ben was right that he, even single-handed, was pretty darned impressive. Remembering his flirtatious comment yesterday, she imagined that callused palm caressing her shoulder as surely, as softly, as he stroked his horse.
But big, strong hands weren’t always gentle. Men who seemed sweet, even romantic and loving, could turn mean with the slightest provocation.
Ben appeared in the open door of the trailer and, as if in answer to her unspoken question, said, “Lunchtime.”
All right, he planned to eat before leaving. She needed to grab a snack, too. Her grocery delivery had come and her fridge was stocked up, so she’d have cheese and fresh fruit to add to carrots from the garden and her usual couple of hard-boiled eggs.
Ben gestured her to come closer, saying,
“I need to—” The rest of his words were lost as he turned and disappeared inside.
Grumbling under her breath, she walked to the trailer door. She didn’t have time for this. She needed to eat before her first afternoon booking, which was one she always enjoyed. Wenda Strom homeschooled her adolescent boy and girl and brought them out almost every week of the year for a guided trail ride. That basically meant that Sally got to go for a scenic ride with a woman who loved nature and a couple of kids who were excited about being on horseback. The clients also handled the grooming and tack themselves.
“Ben?” she said from outside the open door. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Hang on a sec.”
She rolled her eyes and shifted from foot to foot. He was in the tiny kitchen, his back to her. The delicious aroma of onions and cheese cooking made her stomach growl. His lunch smelled better than what she had in mind for hers.
Curiously, she glanced around his living space. The trailer was an older model, and about half again as big as the one she used to tow. The compact interior wasn’t fancy and it had seen lots of use, but it was neat. The front overhang had a bed, and the couch would flip out to make another one. A scratched dinette provided cramped seating, and there was a flat-screen TV. A tablet was propped up on the dinette table, with resistance exercise tubing beside it.
“I could pull out my folding chairs and set them up,” he said over his shoulder, “but your deck has a much nicer view.”
“What are you—” She broke off as he turned and came toward her, holding out a plate filled with a steaming serving of melted cheese-covered omelet, a fork laid beside it. Her mouth stayed open as he handed the plate down to her and turned away. “You cooked lunch for me?”
He came back carrying a second plate, and walked down the steps. “Least I could do, when you supplied the eggs. Hold this for a sec?” He handed her that plate as well, pulled on his work boots, then took the plate back. Confidently, he headed across the yard toward her house.
