by Tara Wylde
“Not exactly. I promised my sister I’d take her somewhere. She’s been really looking forward to it. I hate to let her down.” Again. I reach for my cell phone. Given how tight my finances are right now, I hate calling Uber, but I don’t have many other options. At least they’re cheaper than taking a taxi all the way to my house.
“I can give you a lift wherever you need to go,” Ronan offers.
I bite my lip. “I don’t know. It’s the first day off you’ve had in a long time. Don’t you have someplace you need to be? Something you want to do?”
“Nothing that beats shuttling a beautiful damsel in distress around.”
The surge of pleasure he triggers by calling me beautiful almost cancels out the sharp bite of also being referred to as a distressed damsel. The only reason I don’t call him on it is that at this moment, it happens to be true.
“Come on, Cassie. You don’t want to keep your sister waiting.” Ronan reaches for the Buick’s door and pops the handle. The door springs open. “Close your window and lock the doors so we can be on the way.”
The thought of the disappointment on Sally’s face if I get back too late to take her to Lopeck’s is all the incentive I need. I let myself out of the Buick.
Playing the role of a gentleman, Ronan opens the passenger door of his Chevy pickup and holds it while I climb into the cab. By the time I fasten my seat belt, he’s settled into the driver’s seat and has the truck running.
I send a quick text to my mom, letting her know that my car was down for the count and that I’ll need to borrow hers this afternoon.
He pulls out and points the truck’s front bumper toward the highway before sliding a sideways glance in my direction. “I’m starting to figure you out.” There’s a note of pride in his voice.
“Oh?” If he has, he’s the first. Half the time, I can’t figure myself out.
“I made a mistake on our flight to Morocco,” Ronan continues. “I didn’t realize how desperately you need to remain in control.”
My eyes widen. “What are you talking about?”
“Your independent streak. I didn’t realize that it’s even wider than Texas. Which is funny, considering it’s one of the things I like most about you.”
Ronan flicks on his blinker and takes the exit that leads to Covington.
“It didn’t click until you pushed me up against your ole Buick. That’s when I realized the only time you let me get close is when you’re calling the shots.”
I haven’t thought about it that way before, but now that he’s mentioned it, I can see where he might be right. I push even further back in my memory and realize that it’s been a pattern for all of my adulthood. I’ve been the one to call the shots.
“You don’t like losing control,” Ronan continues talking, “and when I laid out the terms while we were going to Morocco, well, I wasn’t trying to take the control out of your hands, but I can see how the way I handled things would have put you on edge.”
Unsure how to respond, I stare down at my lap.
“And the way I pushed yesterday when we were at the airport probably didn’t help much either, I imagine.”
“I was preparing to call things off before we landed,” I tell him, my voice soft. “Turn right at the next crossroad.”
Ronan turns on his blinker and the truck starts to slow in preparation for the turn. “Can I ask why?”
I don’t want to talk about this. The entire conversation makes my stomach turn summersaults and causes my heart to race. Still, Ronan has been nothing but an absolute sweetheart and the only thing he’s asking me for is an explanation for my behavior. I suppose it’s the least I can do.
“I don’t understand, or particularly like, the way you make me feel.” I glance out the windshield. “The next right.”
The corners of Ronan’s mouth kick up in a small smile. “How I make you feel?”
“It’s hard to describe. Whenever you’re around, I get all jumpy and nervous. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act, what to say.” I interlock my fingers. Talking about feelings isn’t my strong suit. “I don’t like it.”
I don’t even want to get into the complicated state of my home life.
Ronan exhales and shoots a quick glance my way. “What if I tell you that I have the exact same reaction to you?”
I take a second to contemplate his words. “It doesn’t make me any less nervous. Take the next left.”
“I like that you’re nervous.” Ronan swings the truck to the left. “Yesterday, when you drove off after your half-assed break-up speech, I was pissed as hell. At that point, I vowed I wasn’t giving up on you without a fight. I spent the better part of my night trying to come up with a plan to make you see, once and for all, that you should give me a chance, but I’ve changed my mind.”
The muscles in my shoulders bunch. If he plans on forcing me into going out with him, he’ll live to regret it. On the other hand, the idea that he’s about to say he’s no longer interested makes my stomach hurt. “Turn onto the third driveway on the left.”
“I still want to see you, to get to know you. I need to explore this thing that’s happening between us as much as I need to draw breath, but I’m not going to rush you. You’re free to choose how fast or slow we go. All I ask is that you don’t stop this thing before it has a chance to start. Can you do that?”
The truck slows as its nose approaches my driveway. In a second, Ronan is about to find out just how messed-up my personal life is.
I twist as far as the seatbelt allows and stare straight at Ronan. “I’ll give you my answer in about five minutes. Assuming you still want it.”
Ronan
Cassie probably meant for her response to be ominous, designed to make me rethink my interest in her, but that’s not the effect it has. Instead of being alarmed, I’m intrigued.
I hold the steering wheel steady as the truck bumps and jerks down the rutted lane that serves as a driveway.
Through the windshield I study the trailer at the other end of the drive. It’s nothing fancy, just a beat-up white house trailer with a broad turquoise stripe. The front door opens out onto a hardwood stoop that has a couple of lawn chairs set up on it. The most interesting feature is a long ramp that extends the entire length of the trailer and connects to the porch.
The yard is a patchy collection of weeds and grass. Several chickens peck through the weeds or lay in little hollows they dug into the sand.
“Son of a bitch,” Cassie swears, startling me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My mom is supposed to be here, but her car’s gone.” Cassie rolls her head from side to side. “I bet she took off as soon as I told her I needed her car. I knew I shouldn’t have given her a heads up. How the hell am I supposed to get my sister to Lopeck’s without a vehicle? I can’t believe I was so stupid.”
I brake in front of the trailer and shift into park. “I can drive you and your sister wherever you need to go.”
“No.” Cassie shakes her head. “I really can’t do that. We were planning on spending the entire day at Lopeck’s. Even if you took us, I couldn’t ask you to bring us home again. You’ve already done so much.”
“It’s no problem.” I turn the truck off. “The only thing I have scheduled for today is working on your Buick, though I can see why you’d want that to be a priority.”
Cassie holds onto my truck’s door handle and chews on her lower lip. I don’t have any trouble reading her thoughts. She’s torn between wanting to go to this Lopeck’s, whatever that is, and not wanting to be dependent on me.
Unable to stop myself, I reach out and take her left hand in my right.
“Cassie, I’m not trying to step all over your sense of independence.” My thumb glides back and forth across the back of her hand. “But this is something I want to do. Are you willing to let me?”
Cassie’s eyes narrow. “Why are you willing to do this?”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” I lift h
er hand and drop a butterfly kiss on it. “I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you.”
“You’re really fond of that word, aren’t you?”
“It serves its purpose,” I tell her. “Will you give me this chance?”
“I wish I could figure out what to do.”
The trailer’s screen door bangs open, startling both of us. A woman with dark hair and the widest, brightest smile I’ve ever seen wheels herself onto the wide porch. She stares at the truck for a long second before lifting one hand and waving frantically.
“Cassie,” she cries out.
Cassie pushes the truck’s passenger door open and launches herself out of the cab. While I work to unlatch my seatbelt, she rounds the front of the truck and rushes up the trailer’s stairs. I step out and follow at a more leisurely pace.
Cassie and the young woman embrace as I climb the stairs.
“Sally, this is Ronan, a friend, someone I work with.” Cassie straightens and turns to me. Her eyes meet mine. They’re more subdued than I’ve ever seen them. “My car broke down, so he agreed to give us a lift to Lopeck’s.”
I crouch in front of Sally’s wheelchair and extend my right hand to her.
“Howdy, ma’am,” I drawl. “Nice to meet you.”
Giggling hysterically, Sally shakes my hand. I notice several deep, old scars crisscrossing the back of her hand. The scars extend up to her wrist before disappearing under the cuff of the long-sleeved T-shirt she’s wearing.
“I’m Sally.” For a second her childlike expression changes, becomes a bit more adult like. Her gaze shifts from me to Cassie. Her nose wrinkles.
“Is he why you were sad and lonely yesterday?” Sally asks her sister.
I don’t dare move as I wait with bated breath for Cassie’s response. Maybe she missed me as much last night as I missed her.
Cassie sucks in a startled breath. “I told you, I wasn’t sad or lonely, just very tired.”
“You lied,” Sally says confidently. “We need to leave for Lopeck’s.”
Without waiting for either of us to respond, Sally wheels her chair down the ramp and bumps across the dusty yard and stops beside my truck.
For the first time, I realize the flaw with my offer to take them to whatever Lopeck’s is. There’s no way Sally’s chair is going to fit inside my truck.
Cassie reads my thoughts. “I can get her into the cab and strap her in while you put her chair into the bed of your truck.”
“Is that going to be safe?” Without her chair, Sally will be trapped, unable to move.
Cassie jogs down the stairs. “It’s not ideal, but it’s that or stay at home, and Sally won’t like that option. She rides in my Buick all the time while we keep the chair in the trunk. You’ll just have to drive carefully.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“I want to ride in the front seat,” Sally says when Cassie and I join her beside my truck.
A small smile softens Cassie’s strained expression. “I think that can be done.”
Cassie opens the passenger door before maneuvering her sister’s chair into position. She steps directly in front of it. “Here we go.”
She bends and Sally reaches up, looping her arms around the back of her neck. She holds on tightly as Cassie straightens and steps back, drawing Sally up and out of the chair. A few seconds later, after a great deal of shoving and grunting, Sally is sitting in the shotgun seat.
While Cassie gets Sally buckled in, I fold up the wheelchair and lift it into the bed of my truck.
By the time I let myself into the truck, Cassie is seated in the back seat and Sally is bouncing excitedly.
I turn the truck on. “Are you ready?” I direct the question at Sally, but my eyes find Cassie’s in the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” Sally yells.
“Okay.” As I guide the truck back down the driveway, I wish Cassie was as easy to understand as her sister.
Ronan
Lopeck’s is a small farm that’s nestled right in the middle of about three hundred acres of cotton fields. It rises from the fields like a sultan’s oasis palace.
The small farmhouse could use a good coat of paint and the eaves are sagging, but the large, bright blue barn behind the house and surrounding corrals are in perfect repair. Two horses stand at a hitching post just outside the corral where a group of people surround a young, helmeted rider who’s astride a short, chubby bay pony. The kid is all smiles. The pony looks like it woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Sally squeals with delight and claps her hands as I park the truck between a dark green late model Subaru station wagon and a large, burgundy conversion van that has a handicap ramp built into the side.
A large black and tan spotted dog lopes up to the truck and starts sniffing the tires.
“We’re here,” Sally babbles as Cassie works to undo the seatbelt and I prepare the wheelchair. “We’re finally here.”
“Sally. Cassie.” A deeply tanned, slender, middle aged woman strides towards us. “I was hoping you’d make it out here soon.” She reaches over and flicks Sally’s ear. “We’ve missed you.”
Sally leans forward and wraps her arms around the woman’s narrow waist. “Me too.”
“Hey, Loretta.” Cassie runs her fingers through her hair, scraping it away from her face and bunching it up into a ponytail. She fastens it with the rubber band she’s been wearing around her wrist. “Sorry we were gone for so long. My work got crazy and lately Rhonda just hasn’t been able to make the trip out here.”
“Cassie, you have nothing to apologize for. I completely understand.” Loretta’s eyes move to me. Interest flairs in their dark blue depths. She extends a hand. “Hi, I’m Loretta Lopeck. This is my place.”
I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Sally, tired of niceties, tugs at the bottom of Loretta’s untucked, racer back tank top. “Can I ride today?”
Loretta grins down at her. “It just so happens that you got here at the perfect time. There’s a nice gap in lessons right after Pete wraps up. How do you feel about riding Bullet?”
Based on Sally’s wordless shriek, she’s enthused.
Still grinning, Loretta grasps the handles of Sally’s wheelchair and pushes her toward the barn. Perfectly content to let someone else handle the driving, Sally sits back in her chair and keeps up a lively conversation with Loretta.
“Come on.” Cassie leads me down a narrow path that leads directly to the large corral. We sit at a covered picnic table near the corral and watch as the child on the pony heaves a tennis ball at one of those plastic basketball hoops that are designed for toddlers.
He keeps putting too much heft into his throw, causing it to go way past the hoop. Each time he misses, a heavy-set woman who appears to be in charge fishes another tennis ball out of a large plastic bucket and hands it to him while encouraging him to try again.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“The entire farm is devoted to using horses for therapeutic reasons,” Cassie says. “Sally has been coming here for years. They do a little bit of everything from using horses to help people problem solve, to therapeutic riding lessons, to hippotherapy. A few of the students even show in the local 4-H shows. Loretta is working with a young woman who rides dressage that’s hoping to qualify for the next Special Olympics.”
In the arena, everyone cheers as the child finally makes a basket. Caught up in their excitement, he gives a big belly laugh and throws both of his arms up in the air. As far as I can tell, the pony has fallen asleep.
I point to the arena. “So, what’s going on here?”
Cassie studies the activity in the corral. “A riding lesson. What usually happens is part of the class is used for teaching the child basic riding skills and teaching them how to control the horse. The rest of the class focuses on helping them hone other skills. Throwing a ball in a hoop is a fun way to work on hand-eye coordination, balance, and core strength. Most of the kids enjoy it a
lot more than they do traditional forms of physical therapy.”
I spent a good part of my youth on the back of a horse and still ride whenever I get the chance. I don’t get the same thrill from riding as I do flying a plane, but there is something about being in the saddle that helps me feel more connected and grounded, so I can understand how it would benefit individuals with disabilities.
“Why so many people?” In addition to the boy, there’s the woman with the bucket of balls who looks like she’s teaching the class, a young man leading the pony, and two additional people walking on either side of the pony.
“They keep everybody safe. Most of the kids who ride here have some cognitive issues which makes it difficult for them to control themselves and a horse. If a person gets good enough, they start riding with fewer and fewer volunteers until eventually they’re independent.” Cassie smiles and a note of pride creeps into her voice. “Last summer, Sally finally reached the point where she’s riding independently.”
Feeling antsy, I stand. “Let’s check out the stables.”
I extend my hand. Cassie stares at it for a moment before surprising me by placing hers in it. Our fingers twine together as she gets to her own feet. Even more surprising is the warm satisfaction the simple touch sends curling through me. It’s even better than a hot cup of chocolate on a damp, windy day.
I let Cassie take the lead as we wander past the corral and toward the barn.
“How can Sally ride a horse? I’d think that since she’s in a wheelchair, it’d be impossible for her.”
“She got lucky. If the damage to her spine had been a half inch higher, she wouldn’t be able to ride,” Cassie says. “Her spinal injury is the reason we learned about this place. Her doctor suggested that she come here once her body was healed and start riding. The movement of the horse actually mirrors the way humans move when they walk, which helps keep paraplegics’ muscles fit, even though they can’t move them.”
We reach the large double doors of the barn, which are wide open, allowing sunlight and a little breeze to flow into the structure.