Chapter 43 Ella

Chapter 43

Ella

Two years later

"Ella! I need you— now !"

Natine's voice spills in through the open door of my RV, yanking me into action. I jump from the bed, toss my book onto a clump of pillows, and sprint down the three metal steps, following her desperate call. Winding through stables and toward the fenced-in grazing pasture, I squint through the harsh sunlight and spot her up ahead.

The scene that greets me is chaotic. Several horses are galloping around the enclosure, their panicked whinnies echoing all around us, heightening the anxiety. I'm met with a slew of wide and white-rimmed eyes, while frightened hooves kick up clouds of dust and dirt with every step. Natine is in the middle, trying to grasp the reins of one particularly agitated mare, her low, soothing voice doing its best to cut through the havoc.

"Ella." She swings her head toward me when I approach. "We need to get them under control before they hurt themselves or each other."

"I'm on it." I nod, inhaling a deep breath to focus. Swiveling back around, I race to the tack room and snatch a few halters and lead ropes. We need to isolate the most distressed horses first.

When I run back to the scene, I fumble with the padlock to the enclosure, slide inside, then lock it behind me.

"Start with Indigo! She's influencing the others." Natine points to the lead mare, who's pacing erratically near the far end.

I approach Indigo from the side, avoiding direct eye contact to prevent further agitation. Using a gentle, reassuring voice, I murmur, "Easy, girl. Easy. You're okay. You're fine."

Natine does the same with another horse, her body language equally calm and assertive. One by one, using a combination of hushed tones, slow movements, and the familiar touch of our steady hands, we manage to halter the distressed horses and lead them to separate paddocks. With each horse we isolate, the collective panic in the enclosure begins to wane.

Once the last horse is safely corralled, the two of us stand, panting and covered in dirt, in the now-quiet paddock.

"Lord Jesus, that was stressful," Natine says, puffing her cheeks with air, her dark-brown eyes scanning the perimeter. "I wonder what set them off."

Following her gaze, I spot a fallen branch near the edge of the paddock, its leaves rustling in the late-November wind. Beside it lies a torn metallic balloon, the kind children get at fairs and festivals. It must've popped and spooked the horses.

"There," I point. "The balloon next to that branch. I bet it sounded like a predator."

Natine nods, her button nose wrinkling. "Mmm, makes sense. We'll have to do a perimeter check every morning from now on. That holiday market just started in the square."

"Great for my candle collection," I decide. "The horses are notably less enthused."

Chuckling, she sends me a smile, her teeth extra white against dark skin and plum lipstick. Natine readjusts her sage-green headscarf as two golden earrings glint in the sunshine. "I was going to head over there this afternoon. Aside from manure, all I've been smelling this weekend is deep-fried everything. My hips are telling me no, but my heart wants Oreos on a stick."

I giggle as we stroll side by side toward my RV, my knee-high boots sinking into chill-hardened dirt. "Give me twenty minutes to hop in the shower and I'll be your Oreo wing-girl."

"I knew you were good people."

"Of course you did. When you met me, I basically had ‘Chosen Little Sister' written all over my face as I ass-planted in the mud."

"Your face was more ‘Holy shit, I'm about to ass-plant in the mud,' but, sure, we'll go with that."

I nudge her playfully with my shoulder. "We'll definitely go with that."

It's true that I made a subpar first impression when I drove up to Natine's horse ranch over two years ago, lost, exhausted from months of directionless traveling, and eager to hop on a horse again for the first time in years.

It didn't go well.

Turned out, I wasn't quite the bright-eyed, confident rider I'd once been. The horse sensed my faux self-assurance and decided to play with me, hightailing it into a full-on gallop the moment my feet were in the stirrups. I hunched forward, trying my hardest to stay in the saddle, but it was too much, too soon—I biffed it.

Natine laughed as she ran toward me.

And thus, our friendship began. There I was, floundering in a mud puddle with a bruised tailbone, while Natine, a wise and nurturing presence at the age of thirty-five, stood steadfast by my side, extending a hand to pull me to my feet. She pulled me to my feet in a lot of ways, giving me a temporary job on her ranch as a stable hand while I continue to search for a more lifelong career in the equestrian field. She's also let me live on her property in the rusty old RV Chevy sold to me for $9,500—well under listed value. I used the remaining $40,000 of the inheritance from Grandma Shirley to travel aimlessly before fate landed me at Diamond Acres, one of the few horse farms in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan—making my job hunt difficult—and I still have a lot of that money left over, considering I enjoy living simply. A good portion of it has gone into making my RV sparkle. It doubles as not only my home, but also a small business I started up to sell books and my own bookbinding creations.

I like to call it a modern-day bookmobile. It's served me well, keeping income flowing in, while allowing me to do what I love.

The last two years have been pivotal in my healing process, and regular visits from Mom, Ricardo, Brynn, and Kai have kept me focused on that uphill journey. Excitement has been blooming all week as I gear up for my twenty-first birthday.

Excitement that is only dimmed by one thing.

And that one thing is a constant reminder of what I gave up in order to find my healing.

There are days when I wonder if I made the wrong choice. Those are the dark days. The shadow-fogged, dreary days of wallowing, eating too many carbs, and video-calling Brynn with tears streaming down my face. She tells me he's doing well, visiting with his father in an assisted living center and thriving in a business with Chevy. What began as a side gig in house-flipping has now blossomed into a flourishing career for both of them.

Still, it hurts.

I miss him so much.

There's a hole in my heart, a hole in my entire life. A painful missing piece. And the only thing that comes close to filling it is the Michigan air filling my lungs as I ride my favorite horse, Midnight, through pastures and golden fields, pretending he's galloping by my side.

He is.

I never let him go.

The RV comes into view and I wave a quick goodbye to Natine as she curves toward her small white ranch house. "I'll pop by in a few," I tell her.

"Take your time, Ell. I have some paperwork to finish up." She stops, swivels toward me. "Oh, hey, you still have that interview on Sunday morning? At the new horse farm a bit west of here?"

"Yep," I call out over a gust of wind. "Ten a.m."

"Bummer. I was secretly hoping you'd stay here forever."

"Yeah, right. This RV is an eyesore and you know it."

"But you're not. I'm really going to miss you."

We share a soft look as I readjust my wool hat and waver by my makeshift home on wheels. Part of me wouldn't mind staying here forever, but I know, deep down, Natine and Diamond Acres are just beautiful stepping stones to my final landing place. My ambition to specialize in professional horse training brought the disappointing realization that the Upper Peninsula doesn't offer many opportunities in that field, so I've found myself dragging my mud-spattered feet, reluctant to bid farewell to my dear friend.

To my surprise, Natine got wind of a new farm that just opened up thirty miles west of here. She even helped me secure a job interview on Sunday as a stable manager, which happens to be the day after my birthday. Nailing down a job in my desired field while also staying close to Natine would be the best birthday present ever.

I holler back before traipsing toward the RV. "Nothing is official. You might be stuck with me forever."

"Not mad about it, honey."

Smiling wide, I send her off with a wave and disappear inside before making my way to the tiny bathroom for a shower.

But first, I read one more chapter of Black Beauty .

***

"I'm good, Mom. Stop worrying." I balance the phone between my ear and shoulder as I fumble with a lip-balm cap, my boots sloshing through half-frozen puddles strewn along the small-town sidewalk. "There will be plenty more birthdays you can crash."

Mom is in Cancún with Ricardo.

My birthday is tomorrow.

Therefore, Mom has guilt.

"I feel awful," she moans, despite the music stylings of a mariachi band playing in the background, mingling with laughter and windswept waves. "You're all alone on your birthday."

"I'm not alone. I have Natine, horses, my own sparkling company, and an infinite number of books to read."

"I wish I could be there."

I smile softly. "I love you, but you're full of lies. You're in paradise with your boyfriend, sipping cocktails on the beach. There's nowhere else you'd rather be and you know it."

Her tone is still laced with melancholy. "But you're turning twenty-one. That's a big deal."

"You're moping, Mother. You need to perfect the brood."

A rumble of laughter echoes through the speaker. "You're right. I do have an excellent coach."

"You do," I agree. "And that coach would love for you to visit over Christmas, so we can brood in tandem to gloomy Johnny Mathis songs."

"I can't wait to see you, honey. Please be safe. I'll give you a call tomorrow."

"Love you."

"Love you, too. Happy birthday."

We disconnect the call and I slip my cell phone into my purse as I veer toward the bar entrance. My smile lingers while I think about how far my mother has come in the wake of our catastrophic family upheaval. It hasn't been easy for any of us, but Mom was truly put through the emotional wringer. She dedicated years of her life to getting her son out of prison, only to watch him go right back to a jail cell a few months into freedom.

Thank God for Ricardo.

Kai's father has been the biggest blessing, keeping Mom busy, laughing, hopeful, and growing. They have no plans for marriage and are content being partners, both of them having lived through respective messy divorces. Their dynamic works. They travel often and love hard, and I can't recall a time when my mother was happier.

When I approach two familiar cement steps that lead up to a towering sable door, I reach for the handle and swing it open, a rush of warmth hitting my face as I step inside.

"Ella!" Anderson flips a bottle of tequila in his hand like a pro from behind the bar, sending me a wink as I enter. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

"My birthday is tomorrow, but thank you," I tell him, pulling off my black beanie and smoothing down my hair. My tresses have grown out to the middle of my back now, after the shorter cut I had due to my surgery. I pull my hair over both shoulders and make my way to a vacant barstool.

"The usual?" Anderson side-eyes me while serving another customer.

I nod. "Yup. Make it a double."

A minute later, two glasses of bubbly Dr Pepper are sitting in front of me. I inhale a big sip of one of the sodas through a straw and almost choke.

Anderson snorts a laugh. "An early birthday treat."

"That tastes like rocket fuel," I mutter through a gag. "Rocket fuel that's been laced with liquid fire."

"It's a Dr Pepper bomb. Shot of rum at the bottom."

"Thanks. I must've missed the warning."

"And miss your reaction? Never."

I glare at him through an amused grin. "I'm not even of legal drinking age yet."

He glances at his invisible watch. "Only two more hours. Worth the risk."

Music spills out of one the vintage jukeboxes, and I glance right, spotting a cluster of twentysomethings browsing through the song list. The dive bar is called Retro Rhythms, a nod to the nostalgia of the past. It's a meshing of aged wood, dim lighting, and a kaleidoscope of colorful vinyl album covers littering the walls. The smell of worn leather and hints of tobacco float through the air, fusing with the laughter and chatter of young and old patrons.

I was never much of a bar girl, but the name caught my attention one day while I was exploring the town's local shops and restaurants.

It's all about the rhythm…

Anderson is my favorite bartender. He's a late-thirties father of two, married to the owner, and he always welcomes me with a smile and a Dr Pepper when I pop in for my usual Friday routine.

I drink a Dr Pepper.

And then I dance.

"You better get a song in before those college kids murder my eardrums with country music," he tells me, mixing a concoction of vodka and lemon juice.

I laugh when he visibly shudders.

"I got you," I say back, drinking down the uncompromised beverage, slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, and hopping off the stool with a salute.

When the country song ends, I wind over to the jukebox and insert my debit card, already knowing my song selection. A moment later, Stevie Nicks fills the room with "Rhiannon."

A bright smile tips my mouth.

I make my way out to the center of the dance floor, hips swaying, the smile sticking to my face, and my hair sashaying all around me. A few regulars cheer me on, clapping and whistling. Sweat slicks along my hairline as I undulate under the lights, and music fills my soul.

Three minutes of restoration.

Three minutes of pure therapy.

Three minutes where I'm with him and he's with me, and we're dancing on a bridge beneath the stars, his arms around me, my cheek pressed to his pine-scented chest.

I feel him more than ever in these moments. I feel his warmth, his strength, his careful fingers stroking back my hair. I inhale his familiar nature-steeped scent and hear a single word whispered against my ear: "Stay."

Within these three minutes, I do stay. I never leave Juniper Falls. Tragedy never claws its way through us with black-tipped talons. It doesn't infect us, doesn't contaminate everything precious and good.

There is no Jonah. No McKay. No terror, no bloodshed, no tears.

There are only Max and Ella, swaying on an old bridge over the water with a sun-inspired playlist as our soundtrack.

I slowly lift my arms over my head, then drag my fingers through my hair as my hips twirl, my neck swivels, and my pulse thrums. My eyes remain closed. Images burst to life in full color within my mind's eye and I savor every second in his arms.

And for a moment, I think I do feel him.

My skin tingles with a strange familiarity. A pinprick of intuition. Like something is giving my soul a warm hug.

"Souls don't see, Sunny. Souls feel."

I open my eyes and glance around the dance floor, gaze sweeping from face to face, shadow to shadow, while I keep moving, keep swaying in slow motion.

Nothing.

I scold myself for being ridiculous and slam my eyes shut once again, shaking off the feeling.

Three minutes turn into four and the song ends, leaving me cold and alone. My eyelids flutter back open, my gaze landing on cheerful faces and enthusiastic fist pumps through the air as fellow patrons celebrate my one-person dance performance. I force a smile and take a small bow before traipsing off the dance floor, already craving the next three minutes.

"You make that look cathartic," Anderson notes, refilling my watered-down soda. "When I dance, my wife tells me I look like a malfunctioning Roomba banging against the wall over and over."

My fingers curl around the edge of the bar as I attempt to envision the analogy. I can't. Breathing out a laugh, I offer him a shrug. "I never used to like dancing. I never liked attention on me, or bright lights, or big crowds."

"What changed?"

My smile turns watery. "A boy."

"Ah. Always is." He presses forward on the bar with both palms and tilts his head. "You look like you're entirely somewhere else when you dance," he muses. "Where do you go?"

With a slow exhale, I reach for the glass, finger the straw, then glance back up at him. "Back to that boy."

I make my way home a little after midnight and step inside the RV, flipping on a light and veering toward the miniature bedroom at the far end. After slipping into a pair of cozy pajamas, gulping down a glass of water, and brushing my hair and teeth, I pull my notebook out of a tiny desk drawer and reach for a pen.

Inside the notebook is a list.

It's a list of all the things Max wanted me to do.

Meet new people.

Learn to skip stones.

Watch every sunrise and every sunset.

Find a bridge and toss sticks into streams.

Dance, no matter who's watching.

Read as many books as you can.

Make lists.

Drink Dr Pepper.

Ride horses until you can't catch your breath.

Uncapping the blue pen, I add another checkmark in the columns under "dance" and "drink Dr Pepper." Then, with a melancholic smile, I tuck the notebook back in the drawer and crawl into bed.

Checkmarks #122 and #146.