Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Thalia

“Scoop, lift, toss. Scoop, lift, toss.”

I grunt out this mantra as I muck the stall, moving horse shit to the wheelbarrow, which will later be dumped on the manure pile at the back of the barn. Sweat runs in rivulets down my face, grabbing the dust and grime left by a hard day’s work, but this is my last stall and then I’ll be done for the day.

“Scoop, lift, toss.” It’s a ridiculous chant, but I’ve always found some sort of cadence helps me with the repetitive chores.

My gelding quarter horse and number one man in my life, King, is tethered in the aisle while I clean his cozy abode. He’s watching me with eager eyes, knowing he’ll get his evening feed once I’m done.

Sliding my shovel under the last of King’s “contribution” to my workload, I dump it into the wheelbarrow and push it outside the stall. King doesn’t shy away from me or the wagon whose rusted wheel squeaks. He’s the calmest, gentlest, most steadfast horse I’ve ever had, and at ten years old, he just gets more mellow with age. I could crawl under him right now and go to sleep between his four hooves and under his thousand pounds of weight, knowing he’d never so much as bump my body with his.

Removing my work gloves, I toss them onto an old pine bench against the far wall. It’s a five-dollar purchase I made at an old antique store in Casper this past weekend, and I high-five myself for such a thrifty and practical purchase.

Grabbing a peppermint from a bucket, I remove the cellophane and offer the candy to King. He uses his lips to sweetly pluck it from my palm, and I use the opportunity to lean into him for some pets and snuggles.

They don’t last long, though, as King is hungry for his dinner. He snorts in annoyance over my attention, shaking his head to dislodge me.

“Fine,” I drawl as I lead him back into his stall. “Choose food over me. I won’t forget it.”

He nickers softly, not understanding what I’m saying but reiterating he’s hungry. I refresh his water, scoop feed into his bucket, and take one last moment to admire him after I slide the stall door shut and bolt it.

King is a chestnut quarter horse with a beautiful blaze of white running down his back right leg, from hip to hoof, and stands a little over sixteen hands high. My parents gave him to me for my seventeenth birthday, and it was love at first sight.

“See you in the morning, my man,” I murmur as I turn away and head out of the barn. The other horses are quiet, all having been fed and shut in for the night. All except for Dealer, a big bay in the last stall and the only breeding stallion I currently have. He kicks the back wall as I walk past.

“Be nice,” I admonish softly. “I’ll turn you out in the morning.”

He snorts in response and kicks the wall again. He’s really a big baby, and I love him to death, just as I love all my horses.

I exit the old barn but leave the two swinging doors open. It’s going to be a crisp night, and the fresh air will be good for them.

I relish the last lingering smells of fresh hay, horse, and leather as I stop at the water spigot. These are the smells of my ranch, and they are sweet to me.

I quickly wash my hands and dry them on my jeans. Grabbing the water bottle I left outside, I drain the contents and cross the enclosed paddock that connects to the barn.

Beyond that, the majestic, snow-covered peaks of the Teton Mountains still manage to take my breath away, despite having lived here my entire life. The setting sun paints an orange glow on the upper peaks’ remaining snow that sparkles like crushed diamonds lit on fire.

It was warm today for early July in Wyoming, but as the sun drops, I can feel the chill creeping in. The exertion from cleaning stalls has soaked my shirt in sweat. My back aches slightly from the constant shoveling, and my shoulders are sore from the repairs I made to the front paddock gate earlier today. These are all feelings I cherish because they confirm I have the strength to carry on my parents’ work and make this old ranch flourish.

Pulling off my Stetson that shielded me all day from the blazing sun, I wipe my sweaty forehead with the back of my shirtsleeve and push the hat back into place on my crown.

My parents taught me that I could do anything I set my mind to, which included taking over this ranch after they were killed eight years ago. I made the choice to leave college and come back here, determined to make it work in my parents’ memory. God, I’d give anything for them to see what I’ve accomplished. Whenever I think of them, I hurt so deeply in my chest, it steals my breath.

I have no other family members. While I don’t think it’s totally weird, I really don’t have any close friends. Oh, I have acquaintances in the horse community, but no one with whom I can share my innermost thoughts.

And yet, despite that loneliness, it’s never occurred to me to leave home. To venture forth to a city where I could be surrounded by people. A part of me likes the solitude, and I’m not merely content but happy here. I feel most at peace on the ranch, nestled and protected in the shadow of the Tetons, surrounded by raw beauty and the soft nickers of horses joyful to see me every day.

I grab the cooler I keep stocked with bottled water and snacks for while I’m out working and head up to the main house, eager for a hot shower, a good dinner, and a nice romance novel after I’m tucked in bed.

*     *     *

By eight o’clock,I feel human again. The steamy shower worked out my sore muscles. My skin is slathered in sweet-smelling lotion, a nod to my girly side since I’m sweaty and grimy most days. My hair is blown dry and left to hang long since I normally have it in a braid down my back. After polishing off two microwaved meals (because I didn’t have it in me to cook after physical labor all day), my belly is full.

In a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks, and a long-sleeved, soft cotton tunic, I sip a cup of tea and nibble on shortbread cookies while flipping through bills. Breeding and training quarter horses is my passion, but the paperwork is the pits. A necessary evil.

Working solidly for the next half hour, I write out checks, stuff envelopes, and resolve to reconcile my checking account tomorrow.

Affixing a stamp to the last envelope, I lean back in my chair and stretch, satisfied with a productive evening and looking forward to relaxing.

I take my teacup and empty plate to the sink and wash them by hand. The dishwasher is on the fritz, and I don’t have the spare cash to replace it. And I’ll have to get a new one rather than repair it as the current machine is avocado green, meaning it’s really, really ancient.

The kitchen is my favorite room in the old family ranch house. It was the first thing I renovated after my parents passed on, wanting to keep the same charm but needing to make it mine, as well. I restored the knotty pine floors and whitewashed the cabinets. I couldn’t afford to replace the appliances, but I more than made up for that by finding my kitchen table at the junkyard. Made from reclaimed chestnut, it’s hand-carved with square inlays and a trestle base. I only had to do some minor refinishing, and it looks amazing under the wrought iron chandelier with metal roosters. Of course, there’s a hodgepodge of mismatched chairs surrounding it, but I don’t think it in any way diminishes its beauty.

Nabbing a cloth from the drawer, I wet it and move to the table to wipe my crumbs when all the horses in the barn start to whinny at the same time. There are several loud bangs, and I can tell Dealer is kicking the back of his stall again. Something has them worked up—I’m guessing a coyote might have gotten too close. Perhaps even went into the barn to look for food.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter as I toss the cloth back into the sink and head for the front door.

I slip into my boots and shrug into a jacket since the temperature has dropped to the low fifties. Before stepping onto the porch, though, I grab the shotgun hanging on the wall and check to make sure it’s loaded.

I peer hard into the darkness surrounding the house. The porch light illuminates just a few feet outward, but over to the right, the outside bulbs on the main barn light up its front as well as part of the paddock. Only the area between me and the barn is dark, but it’s a quick walk, and I’m confident with my gun.

It’s always with me if I go out at night because you never know when a serial killer might be lurking behind a bush, just waiting for the dumb female to walk his way. That won’t be what’s written on my epitaph.

Instead, it will say, She went out with a fight.

Another loud bang as I get closer to the barn. Clearly, Dealer’s kicking out his displeasure over something.

Admittedly, I’m a little spooked in the dark, but I don’t feel any real apprehension. Moose Gap is a safe community. Crime is virtually nonexistent.

Thump.

Freezing mid-step, I snap my head toward the barn and listen intently.

Thump.

That’s a different sort of noise, not a horse kicking at his stall.

As I step into the light spilling at the barn door, a weird sensation prickles the back of my neck. Shaking off my foreboding, I step inside and turn on the interior lights. The center aisle is flooded with brightness, and all looks well, just as I left it not long ago. All the stall doors are shut and bolted. One of the horses lets out a whinny that sounds like a greeting, not a whimper of fear.

I move forward, traversing the aisle and double-checking to make sure each stall door is still bolted shut. At King’s stall, he nickers, but I don’t offer a greeting. I’m listening for the sound I heard before. Dealer is quiet, almost as if he knows I need the silence to figure out what’s going on.

I walk the remaining length of the barn to the back door, also shut. I turn the latch and step outside, thankful for my foresight in installing lighting on the back of the barn too. I’m immediately bathed in a soft, sulfurous glow, but it only extends so far. Past that, I peer hard into the dark, but I can’t see anything.

Because I don’t want to get back into the house and have the horses set off again, I decide to walk the entire outside of the barn to make sure everything looks okay. Between the lights on the front and back of the building, there’s enough castoff illumination to see where I’m going, so I easily move around the back corner and head toward the front.

After only two steps, I trip over a shovel I must’ve left on the ground. Falling forward, I land on my hands and knees, my gun tumbling out of my grasp.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I push myself up and wipe my dirty hands on my leggings. I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment, even though no one could’ve seen me except maybe a foraging chipmunk.

Bending over, I grab the shovel in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Just as I straighten, I catch movement from the corner of my eye, and I whip that way.

I’m boggled and frozen in fear for I am now face-to-face with what can only be described as a monster from a nightmare.