A damp wind assaults the ranch, threatening to dislodge my hat. Far in the distance, thunder rumbles, originating from the dark clouds in the south. I forfeit my battle with nature, tossing my hat into the cab of my truck. Gretchen stands on the tailgate, waiting to throw a bag of feed at me. I hold my arms out, and she launches the beet pulp at my chest with more force than necessary. I follow her distracted gaze, discovering she's watching Josephine.
Jo is near the house, taking clothes down from the line. She sniffs one of my shirts to ensure it's clean, then tosses it into the hamper propped on her hip. Yesterday, our luggage arrived from Maryland. My duffel bag and her suitcases were dry, but the contents reeked of fish and silt. I ran them through the washer thrice before Josephine stepped in to clean them by hand. More effective, and it won't waste water, she told me. Not to mention, most of her clothing is too delicate to be dumped in a machine.
I wasn't concerned about retrieving my belongings from the bottom of the Bay. T-shirts and fatigues can be replaced. But the moment the courier dropped my duffel bag on the porch, I tore through it, searching for my dog tags. I found them in a separate compartment, safe behind a zipper. I've been wearing them ever since, comforted by the warm metal resting on my chest.
Josephine removes the last item from the line, and places the hamper on the porch. Morveux has been waiting patiently for her to finish the chore. As soon as she's done, the Appaloosa approaches Jo, nuzzling her neck. Her giggle travels across the pasture, reaching my ears. I smile, watching as she leads Morveux to a paddock, and lays in a patch of wildflowers to take a nap.
Gretchen tosses another bag at me, but I was too busy staring at Josephine, so it falls to the grass at my feet.
"A little warning, Gretch," I huff, scooping the feed off the ground.
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"Pay attention, Brook," she counters, hopping down from the tailgate. She wipes her hands on her chaps, notching her chin in Josephine's direction. "She went ahead and bonded the Appaloosa to her. It's her job to get him saddle ready, otherwise Mrs. Wilkerson won't pay."
We lift our wheelbarrows, steering them toward the barn. The wheels crunch on rocks, then glide over the cobblestone. Gretchen drops her handles, and begins to pile the feed against the wall, her movements aggressive. I grind my molars, matching her mood. Her disgruntled behavior and clipped tone have been getting on my nerves. I'm itching to give her another week off, but I'll be returning to New York soon. I'll need Gretchen to pick up my slack.
"I bought the Appaloosa," I inform her, stacking the last bag atop the others. "Jo doesn't want to saddle him, so he won't be saddled."
Gretchen stills, furrowing her brow at an unremarkable speck of dirt on the floor. "You bought her a purebred horse."
She didn't phrase it as a question, so I don't answer. Besides, I have my reasons for purchasing the Appaloosa. Technically, Morveux belongs to me, and I don't plan on selling him—not even to Josephine. That means she'll have to return to my ranch to spend time with the horse. It's manipulative, but a failsafe, nonetheless.
