Bring the Rain

by Lizzy Charles

  “Did you ride a lot of subways in Manhattan?”

  “Of course.” I pull on a lever and the windshield wipers dart across my view. Foot to the floor, I dig into the accelerator again, I’m determined to not let this broken down truck and cowboy beat me.

  He slides closer. “Maybe, for everyone’s sake, I should drive? It’s getting late.”

  I punch a button and the cabin dings. Then I go for a red triangle, and the place turns into a disco with the insane blinking. This cannot be happening.

  “May I?” His arm rests on mine. “Let’s get home, okay?”

  “Fine,” I mumble, hating to admit defeat. He smiles, but it’s not an I told you so type grin. His eyes settle on mine, like he thinks this battle we’re having over driving means something significant or crazy.

  I lightly roll my eyes to break his gaze. He may be hot, but this cowboy doesn't need to be reading into things.

  “All right,” he says with a wink, snaking his arm around my waist and pulling me over his lap.

  “Whoa, handsy!”

  “And you weren’t just straddling me a few hours ago?” A second later, he’s switched me over to the passenger seat. “Drink, please.” He nods to the yellow cup. With a few fluid movements, he launches the truck into drive and the wipers disappear. The cup jiggles as we bop down the road. I wouldn’t drink it if I was stranded in a desert… Not if that cowboy gave it to me.

  ***

  I wring my hands in my lap as we pull up to the house. A lone silhouette stands on the top step of the porch. Shit. He checks his phone when we get close, sliding it into his jeans. I dig mine out of my purse, three missed calls. It never occurred to me that he’d try calling. The service is so spotty out here. When Colt cuts the engine, Dad saunters down the steps, totally bypasses my side of the truck. Colt has his window rolled down by the time Dad reaches him.

  “Call this midnight, son?” Dad asked.

  “No Sir,” Colt says, sitting up straight.

  “Autumn?”

  “Dad, I’m only a little late.”

  “An hour and twenty minutes isn’t a little. That’s not how we do things here, Autumn.” He taps the roof of the truck. “Thank you, Colt. No need to show in the morning.”

  Not show up? I glance at Colt. His eyes are wide. Shoot. “No, don’t.” I jump out of the truck and, thank goodness, my footing finds me. “You can’t fire him. It’s my fault.”

  Colt climbs out of the truck. “Autumn, you don’t have to”--

  Dad holds up his hand, “Hold off, Colt. I’d like to hear this. Go on.”

  I have a chance. A foolish chance to save this stupid cowboy’s job. Not that I care about his job. But, I mean, it’s his job. What if his entire living comes from working as a cattle hand? I refuse to be a spoiled brat, getting daddy to fire the guys she doesn’t like.

  “Well, I…” This sucks. A lump develops in my throat. I cough it clear. It’s time to expose the situation. Rip it off like a band-aid, right? “I was drinking.” I look him straight on. “Colt tried to get me home at curfew and I wasn’t on board.”

  Dad rolls his lips in, and grasps his belt. He looks toward the sky then back at me. “You drink, Autumn?”

  “I’m sixteen. Socially, yes, but I’m always safe about it.”

  “Sixteen is far from twenty-one. Is your mother aware you drink?”

  “Of course. She knows that it’s part of being a teenager. As long as I’m safe…”

  Dad’s chest expands and his face stills while he looks at me. There's something in his eyes, almost a plea. I gulp, remembering the same expression when we pulled away from him in a taxi seven years ago. He reaches out and touches my shoulder.

  “There's no drinking this summer. Do you understand?" The softness of his voice startles me. Where’s the yelling match?

  “Sure,” I lie. I can’t promise this man anything.

  “I’ll have to talk with your mother. And Colt—”

  “Don’t fire him. This is my fault.” My gut twists. I’m not used to this raw, upfront honesty. With Mom, we don’t talk into drama or issues. We function best on the “non-issues.”

  Colt bites his lip and I catch a small smile. Dad pats him on the back. “I made a deal with Colt. Get you home safe, for the morning off.” He shakes Colt’s hand.

  I throw imaginary daggers at Colt. He totally knew that’s what Dad meant! Why didn’t he stop my confession? Vengefulness stings my tongue. I flick my eyebrow up at Colt and purse my lips, reminding him about how he responded to my kiss. With a few uttered words, I’m certain Dad would grab his gun.

  Colt backs away, hands up. “That sounds mighty fine, Chris. I’ll see you after lunch.” He tips his leather cowboy hat, like this is a scripted film. “Autumn, a pleasure.” His eyes sparkle in the moon light and, I swear, they’re laughing at me. The dingy old truck roars to life, and soon I’m coughing from the dust he left behind from peeling away.

  “So,” Dad says as he directs me into the house. “Since Colt won’t be able to help me in the morning, I’m going to be needing an extra hand.” He squeezes my shoulders.

  “Ugh, I don’t think I’ll be up for it.” My stomach turns, asking for the trash can to be bedside all night.

  “Don’t worry. Fresh air will help.” He nods toward my old room. “I’ll see you in the barn, four-thirty sharp.” He kisses the top of my head as he does every year when he leaves his weekend of visiting Manhattan. “Rest well.”

  My bedroom door creaks when I open it. The light purple clock I got for my sixth birthday still hangs on the wall, glowing. Ugh, only three hours for sleep. I fall onto the mattress and curl up in a ball in the small space that’s suitcase free. Within moments, I’m sleeping.

  ***

  I wake in darkness to Dad knocking on my door. “Time to rise, Autumn.” I roll over. “Acknowledge me or I’m coming in to wake you up how Grandpa used to wake me.”

  “IyaUp.” The words tumble out as I remember the stories of Grandpa throwing buckets of water on him to wake him when he was a teenager. I force myself upright, knowing if I stay curled up I’m bound to fall back asleep. My head pounds. That was barely a nap. I haul myself out of bed, avoiding the mirror. There’s no need to see what I already know, that my eyes are puffy and raw and my hair’s out of control. Tossing my dark hair up in a messy bun, I try to stabilize the post-drinking mushy brain that’s similar to spending too much time out in the sun. This level of hang over has an easy remedy. Two glasses of water should do the trick. Unfortunately, the water isn’t going to make up for being short seven hours of sleep.

  For that, I’ll need coffee. Copious amounts of coffee.

  I yank on my clothes so I can spend most of my time in the kitchen hugging the black brew. With my fix in hand, I wander down the gravel road to the barn. Halfway there, the scent of animals and hay overwhelm me. Dad’s garden smells like he planted the wrong end of a cow, but the barn is different. Somehow the musky hay mixes with the horse’s oats and the saddle leather to overpower the horrid smell of cattle. No, the scent has never bothered me here.

  The barn isn’t a traditional one in the least. It’s actually the old platform home where my great-grandparents use to live. Time tolled the interior, so when the family barn burned down when Grandpa owned the ranch, he stripped the house out, flooring and all, and added a few stalls and feeding troughs. Despite this, the homey feel remains. A fireplace with a mantel displays a handful of two-inch photos. I trace the frames with my finger and watch myself grow year after year in the faded copies of my tacky school pictures. The back door used to lead to a southern-style porch, but Dad attached an old railcar when I was little for more space for a few more horses and goats.

  A black nose with gray specks pokes out from the last stall in the rail car. His nostrils flare followed with the sound of his hoofs digging into the dirt. My heart swells. Howdy still knows my smell. I jog past the remaining stalls. He prances in place when he finally sees my face. I reach thro
ugh, stroking the velvet of his nose as I struggle to keep composed. His white coat isn’t as shiny, but he’s still the most beautiful horse in the world. I open the stall and he pushes into me, warm against my side.

  “Howdy, Howdy.” My eyes well with tears. “It’s been awhile.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “I missed you.” He nuzzles once more and I take a deep breath, struggling to control the tears. Seven years is a long time. I give his shoulder a pat before I interlace my fingers in his mane to untangle some silver strands that a man would never considered unkept. “I think I owe you a ride or two?” More like a gazillion.

  “Autumn, are you back there?” Dad’s call echoes down from the front room.

  I swallow before I speak to keep my voice from cracking. “Yup.”

  “I put a saddle that’ll fit you on your old saddle rack. Give me a holler if you need help.”

  I peek into the opposite corner of the railcar, where Dad stores the tack. A honey-colored leather saddle with swirled stitches up the horn perches where my old cherry one used to rest. I trace my hands over the swirled stitching, remembering how I used to envy Mom’s saddle for this intricacy. I can't believe he kept it.

  “Meet you out front soon?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I appreciate that he doesn’t hover. Caring for Howdy is engrained in my soul. After many fitful nights, I’ve learned to lull myself to sleep with the relaxing memory of grooming him. I swirl the curry comb over his flanks and pick his hoofs, not speaking a word as I enjoy the process. There's a brand new blanket that fits well on his back. I take a sip of coffee, studying Mom's saddle. With a quick heave, I've got it perched. My fingers struggle for a moment, trying to remember how to tighten the girth before I check the stirrups. There. I tug on the stirrups. There’s no adjusting needed. I must be the same height as Mom.

  Howdy falls in step with me as we clomp through the railroad car, the house, and out the modified front door. I don’t have to lead him but he also doesn’t lead me. We walk together, setting our own pace as a unit. He is undeniably the best horse alive.

  Dad cleans his fingernails with a pocketknife as he watches us walk out. I toss the reins over Howdy’s head. Dad gathers them tight below his neck. With a pat of his knee, I know where to put my foot for an assisted mount. I settle in and press my legs against Howdy’s side. Shifting, I try to compensate for my legs being so much longer now. Howdy stomps as I follow my instincts, finding my seat in the saddle. Dad reviews my work, checking the tautness of the girth. I look out at the horizon, watching in wonder as the orange pink feathers of the sun expand through the sky with each of Howdy’s breaths. A tight band releases from around my abdomen – one I didn’t realize was there -- and I sigh after my lungs effortlessly fill with air.

  Finally.

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Amazing,” I say with the wind, hoping he doesn’t hear my slip of honesty.

  Dad nods, shifting my Coach sneakers in the stirrups. “Looks like you’ll be needing some riding boots.” He couldn’t have said something sweeter. I’ve had a pair picked out since I found out I was coming back here. Albeit they aren’t for riding per se, but they are gorgeous chocolate knee-high boots on page eighteen of the newest Frye catalog. “That’s great.”

  “Really?” His smile brightens and my gut twists. Okay, maybe it’s not fair to take advantage of the situation to score a new pair of boots. It’s immature… but so is getting a divorce.

  “We’ll meet up with the crew in the south pasture.” He nods to the horizon. “Bring in the cows and calves for branding, all right?” He swings up and straddles a red mustang that’s pawing the dirt. “This is Shadow.” He pulls back on the reins gently and Shadow leaps backwards three feet. “He’s spirited,” Dad says with a chuckle.

  “And you named him Shadow. Why not Fire?”

  “I love irony.” He presses his heels to Shadow’s side. The horse jolts, kicking up dust as he spazzes sideways the moment Dad attempts to control him.

  “Looks like you still have some work to do.”

  “As I said, spunky.”

  Shadow kicks up his back legs a few inches before sidestepping manic style back across the gravel driveway.

  “Yup, good luck there.” I press my heels against Howdy’s side, and he picks up his trot, taking me toward the open horizon.

  When I ride , all my molecules align. My body's lighter, like I've achieved the grace and balance I've always sought.

  The pastel hours of the morning are enchanting. Howdy does all the work, sauntering with the herd and directing stray calves with the help of Tango darting under his feet. I only hold the reins out of habit as I get reacquainted with the land. The country haze hangs thick above our shoulders and Howdy’s hoofs crunch on dead patches of pasture. This vast land holds an awesome power. The endless space and horizon is striking compared to the walled in view and masses of people in New York City. It's exposing, and I kind of like it.

  The only thing that bothers me is the smell. Why does it have to be so awful?

  Howdy holds up the left side of the herd as the cowboys drive the cattle into a series of pens. Then it gets boring. Gates opening, Dad shouting, cows mooing. Repeat. My eyes grow heavy and my head bobs in place. I reach up, hugging my arms around Howdy’s neck for support while I doze off.

  I jolt awake when I hear that old sound, a shrieking wailing moo that has always crushed my heart. There isn’t any way I can sleep through calves being sorted from their mothers. My stomach turns as the nearby pen breaks out in chaos. The cows try to block the mounted cowboys from taking their babies. They wail when the men inevitably win, separating them.

  It’s not right.

  Dad waves me over, unfazed by the noise. He points towards the calf chute, a small gated alley where the poor animals run in terror or stomp in place if crowded together. With the hot branding iron waiting for them at the end, today they’ll bolt alone. “Get in there,” Dad bellows over the cows’ wails.

  Crap. I’m so not ready for this. My heart cringes as I dismount. The sound is temporary. The calves will return to their mothers. At least, for now. I climb the rails of the chute and throw my leg over the edge where I wait for Dad to herd a calf through.

  This used to be my job. I remember the chute being wider, longer, and, as my underwear slides up my rear, these bars far more comfortable.

  Dad steps toward a medium black calf. It freaks and darts past me, down the shoot to the brander. Dad does his hand signal and I jump off the chute’s edge, closing the gate behind the calf. My Coach sneakers sink in the mud and it oozes into my socks. A stench wafts up. This mud isn't created out of water. I take a moment, choosing that this isn’t any different than exiting the subway and stepping in a puddle of vomit that some drunk soul left just for me.

  I wait for the little fella to freak out again, running back towards me. Like a bookend, I shorten his path, herding him closer to the hot branding pole. Todd, Dad’s best friend and cattleman, waits at the end. He holds the calf still and another ranch-hand pushes the hot iron into his side. A quick squeal and the wind carries the aroma of charred flesh. Todd lets him out the end gate, rerouting into the pen where his mother inspects him.

  The scene replays the rest of the morning. The only thing that changes is the amount of ‘mud’ that’s caked on my shoes and jeans. I eye my Dad’s chaps, hoping he kept some of Mom’s old ones for me. Laundry will not be pretty.

  ***

  Crinkling parchment paper is one of my favorite things.

  With my left hand managing the sandwich wrapping, my right is free to shove the roast beef down my throat. I sigh as my stomach rests. Ahh, much better. Tomorrow’s breakfast will include more than a piece of jelly toast. The cattle are calm now, clustered in the corral with their tails hypnotically swatting away the flies. The sun’s rays are intense, like little bullets piercing my skin. Thank goodness I spotted the sunscreen in the tack box. But blocking the sun also blocks my pores so I get to enjoy beads of
sweat trickling down my neck. I yank off my t-shirt, rubbing the trail away, exposing my racer back yoga tank top. It’s ten-thirty in the morning and I’m pretty sure I just saw a mirage of a skyscraper.

  Suddenly, a calloused hand touches my upper shoulder and a muscular blond leans up next to me on the gate.

  “Autumn.” He winks and my jaw dangles.

  “Colt,” I respond, trying to sound like he doesn’t have broader shoulders and more height than I remember. His ice blue eyes dance and lips twitch as he holds in a smile. My heart flips. Whoa. Aren’t most guys less attractive when you’re sober?

  He turns, looking over the fence to study the cattle. I sneak a glance at his backside, the chaps highlighting his butt. Nice.

  An elbow nudges me and I know I have some repairing to do. It’s possible that straddling him at the party wasn’t the best idea because he wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t hope for more to come. Yeah, he’s the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen, which says a lot after living in Manhattan, but there’s no way I’m getting involved in a relationship this summer. Not with Paris three months away. Fun flings, sure, but Colt works here. He knows Dad better than I do. I’m not messing with that.

  Colt’s pinky finger brushes mine. This poor gorgeous guy is in for a summer filled with disappointment. Hell, so am I.

  “So how’d the morning go?” he taps his lip.

  “The norm.”

  “This,” he points down to my mud-poop caked jeans, “is normal in New York?”

  “I ride the subway, so yeah.” I want to shrug but find myself winking instead. Shoot. He slides an inch closer. He didn’t miss that. His blue eyes sparkle and tingles shoot up my spine in a way I’ve never experienced before.

  I bite my lower lip, eyeing his.

  No. Autumn, do not flirt. Right. I take a step back, forcing my body to comply with my brain. But Colt moves with me, not even aware of how in sync we are already becoming. I move right, testing his response. He sways that direction too. Dad’s whistle interrupts my experiment.