Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Or maybe it’s the fact that it stands against the backdrop of a vast blue sky and rolling green fields. Not to mention, the mountains that jut out in the distance. I lived in Black Rock for the first eleven years of my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky so blue or the ground so green. Or the tips of the faraway mountains so sharp and snowy-white.
I don’t know what I was expecting at Rawhide, but… Actually, scratch that. I know what I was expecting. Something dilapidated. Something neglected and, yes, fraught with danger. Rusted signs, broken fences, scorched earth. But it’s something out of a picture book.
As we ride up to the entrance, more things come into view. Tall trees in full bloom; a winding dirt road just beyond the sign that leads to a log mansion so sprawling and majestic that it puts the bungalow on Wildfire to shame. I mean, just look at the wraparound porch on this thing and those thick polished pillars. There’s a wide set of stairs that lead up to the porch and cushioned rocking chairs that look like the most comfortable chairs I’ve ever seen after riding on a horse for close to a week. But the most striking feature of this mansion/house has to be the massive front facade. It’s made of stacked horizontal logs the same color as the sign—although the wood here is more polished and looks restored—giving it both a rustic and a modern look.
The mansion isn’t the only building on the property, however. As we follow the path, I notice a bunkhouse up ahead and a barn. There’s also a corral, just off the barn, with horses circling along the wooden fence. It would all be very normal-looking if not for the fact that a bunch of ranch hands in their leather chaps and cowboy hats are leaning against the fence, watching as a horse tries to throw off its rider. The man on the saddle is trying to hold on, his hands gripping the reins, but it’s obviously not easy. The horse keeps kicking his hind legs back, his body bucking like a wave.
Over the loud neighing and thudding hooves, I hear the men cursing and hollering. They clap when the horse bucks so hard that the man bounces off the saddle and boo when, despite that, he still manages to stay on. Then, a second after that near miss, the horse jerks so hard that his front legs leave the ground in a cloud of dust; and no matter how hard the man was gripping the reins, his hold slips and he flies off the saddle in an arc, hitting the ground with a thud. Followed by a round of applause and whistling.
I’m so invested in all of this that I sit up straight and gasp. And then I hear a muttered, “Fuckin’ show-off.”
Which reminds me of my own dire situation.
Behind me, I feel him move and then dismount as gracefully as ever. Like we haven’t been riding for hours on end and every muscle in his body isn’t screaming with a deep-seated ache like mine are. And as always, he stands there, with his arms up and his features impassive, to help me down as if things are normal. Like the last week didn’t happen. Or last night. Like he doesn’t know my real name and I’m still his wife—not really.
He does and I’m not.
I have zero energy; I have no inclination to pretend otherwise. I didn’t even think I’d be alive to see today, and I’m just over all the lies. So I accept his help without a word and get down. As soon as my bare feet hit the gravel, I hear someone exclaiming from behind me, “Holy fuck.”
I spin around to find the group of men facing us, now watching us as a spectacle. Some with confusion, and others with shock and familiarity. One of them, though, is on the move. He’s already pushing through the group and striding toward us. I think he’s the one who said those words. As he takes off on a run, I realize he’s the rider who got thrown off if his dusty clothes and scraped-up cheek are any indication. Also, he’s not a man. Or rather he’s too young to be called one. At least way younger than the man standing beside me. Before I can make any other judgment about the newcomer, though, he reaches us and throws his arms around Arsen, holding tight, his Stetson falling off his head with his actions.
And when I say tight, I mean it.
Although his hold on Arsen has nothing on when Arsen winds his arms around him and squeezes. He does it so hard that the younger guy’s feet almost leave the ground and he emits a loud bark of a laughter. The younger guy I mean, not Arsen.