by Jadie Jones
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You didn’t tell me to pack,” I say, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“I packed for both of us.” Her answer makes me snort. Of course she did. I peek at the other farms as I settle back into my seat, but all I can think about is tomorrow. Kentucky is proud of its horses for good reason.
I force myself to focus on the next farm we’re going to. “I’ve actually been to this next place before.”
“Do you like it?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t impressed,” I say frankly. She purses her mouth in disappointment. “There’s no reason for you to waste time at the dime-a-dozen farms. I want to make sure you see the best of what’s out there. Let me make a couple of calls to some people I know.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” she exclaims and hands me her phone. I dial a familiar number.
“Hello. I have a client who is in the market for a couple of horses. No, there’s no price limit . . .” The role slips back on like a pair of perfectly broken in boots.
We stop for lunch and then head west. Virginia’s mountains peak around us as the speeding Maserati grips the winding road. In total we have three more stops for the day, the last one on the western edge of Virginia. But I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll shop Kentucky’s horses without a budget.
“The turn should be up here on the left,” I say, glancing up from the directions I’d written on a napkin during lunch. Vanessa turns up the gravel driveway, which winds through the property. A faded, metal barn sits on a plain lot. The pitched roof is rusted in places and the scattered shrubs marking the entrance are in sore need of attention. But the farm has an air of seriousness about it that I like.
“This place seems kind of run down,” she says without concealing her disappointment. She pulls into a parking space.
“Don’t let that fool you. This is a working farm; it’s not dressed up to impress boarders or students because the primary focus is turning out six-figure horses. And the horses don’t care if the barn isn’t pretty, as long as their stalls are spacious and their meals on time.”
“It’s nice to hear you so confident. I like this side of you,” Vanessa says, which makes my face flush with pride. She turns back to the mirror and inspects herself before we get out of the car.
“Well, I’ll be. You’re Travis Hightower’s girl. All grown up, aren’t you?” A familiar man calls to us from the simple entrance.
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” I admit, glancing down at my boots.
“No need to apologize. It’s been a long time. I was friends with your pop. I’m sorry to hear about his passing.” He extends a hand. “Name’s Avery. Travis and me used to work the circuit together. Last I saw you, you was belt high. Kept his shadow good company. I can’t believe it’s you. I saw ‘Hightower’ written down on the appointment notebook and I don’t know too many of those, but I never would’ve counted on you walking up on my farm.” His eyes sober as they take me in, which touches my heart and rips it in half inside the same breath. I swallow back the surge of emotions climbing my throat and blink away the sting of grief.
“Avery, I’m Vanessa Andrews. Tanzy’s going to teach me how to ride,” she says, giving me a minute to gather the pieces of myself scattered on the gravel parking lot. They shake hands, and Avery gestures Vanessa ahead of him through the open doorway. I linger outside for a moment longer, allowing a few slow breaths to shore the old wounds before stepping inside.
A couple of hours later Vanessa signs two deposit checks, one for a snow-white thoroughbred gelding that had captivated her instantaneously and another for a chestnut mare that had a soft mouth, a rocking-horse canter, and a smooth jump. Even though memories of my father and Wildwood snuck up on me each time I thought I’d shut them out, it was still easy to appreciate the care and effort Avery and his staff took with their horses. What the farm lacked in appearances, the horses made up for in sheer brilliance.
“You’ve got some great horses here.” It’s probably the longest sentence I’ve said to Avery in the time we’ve been here. He gives me a kind smile.
“We like to think so. We’re keeping them as safe as we can. It’s a durn shame what’s been happening around here.”
“What are you talking about? What’s happening?” A wave of adrenaline jumpstarts every muscle into readiness as I watch his eyes cloud over.
“That’s right. I’d forgotten Wildwood was the first.” He studies my face.
“The first?”
“No other farms burned down like Wildwood did, but a few others had their horses stolen overnight. You were there, weren’t you?” he asks. In an instant, the memory of being chased through the woods slams into my brain. I close my eyes instinctively, willing away the sight of the trees blurring past as Hopewell ran for his life, but I can still hear the frantic rhythm of air rushing from his nostrils, his shrill whinny as he flipped over the fence. I throw a hand out for Avery’s desk as my legs surrender beneath me.
“Whoa, Tanzy. Are you okay?” he says and sweeps his burly arm under my bent waist. I cling to his shoulder as the memory fades and the room stops spinning.
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” I insist weakly to us both.
“She hasn’t been out of the hospital long,” Vanessa says, running a gentle hand through my hair. The three circles are suddenly hot under my layers of clothing. My hand covers my chest instinctively. I peek down, making sure they haven’t burned through my jacket.
“I’m okay,” I repeat as I right myself and wipe my face with the back of my hands.
“Take good care of Tanzy, Ms. Andrews. She’s one of a kind.”
“That she is,” Vanessa says warmly.
“I’m going to head to the car. I need some air,” I whisper to no one in particular and hurry outside. I swallow a sob and stare up at the darkening sky. A cold mist makes the air thick, which soothes the tightness in my throat. I close my eyes and lean back against the car.
Vanessa’s even footsteps move across the lot. Her unconditional support and acceptance makes me want to hug her, but my arms stay locked in place in front of my chest, guarding my heart against another wayward memory of Wildwood Farm.
“You sure you’re okay? What happened in there?” Vanessa asks quietly as she claims a spot next to me.
“Coming back into this is harder than I thought it was going to be,” I say. She gives me a sad frown and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened that night at Wildwood. Or about Dad.”
“Do you want to go home? We can do this another time. I’m sorry I pushed,” she says, toeing at the ground in a pair of brand new paddock boots.
“No, this is what I want to do. It’s what I was meant to do. I know it is. It’s just going to take me some time, I guess.”
“Do you think we’ll find good horses in Kentucky?” she asks.
“If you can’t find a good horse in Kentucky then it’s your own fault.”
“Well then, why don’t we skip the last two farms and head straight for Louisville?”
“I think that’s a fantastic idea.” Daydreams about what we might find are a welcome change to the dark memories that I can’t completely shake. I begin to build the perfect horse in my mind: sweeping tail, long legs, deep ribs, wide chest, sloping shoulders, developed, smooth neck, and a sculpted, brilliant head. I start over each time that panther face reappears.
As we merge onto the highway and head for Kentucky, the images I’ve created take on a life of their own. The horses in my coming dream rear and strike at the blackness surrounding them, their eyes rolling white with fear.
13 Kentucky
“We’re here!” Vanessa’s excited voice pierces my sleeping mind and shatters the brutal nightmare I am having into a thousand fragments. All I can remember is shades of red. And a feeling. A terrible feeling. But it all becomes a distant memory as I catch sight of Louisville sprawling in front of us.
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“Sorry I slept for so long,” I rasp and straighten in my seat.
“Don’t be. It just means you can’t use being tired as an excuse to not go out tonight.” She sounds very pleased with herself. I glare at the side of her face.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Tanzy, when is the last time you really went out?”
“Define really going out.”
“You know, get all dolled up. Let a guy buy you a drink. Dance like you don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“I’m eighteen. Guys can’t buy me drinks. I can’t even get into a bar. I’ve never really been big on that scene anyway,” I push back and fold my arms across my chest. We slow to a stop in front of a red light.
“You already don’t care what anyone thinks. It’s probably what I admire about you the most. Just live a little. You might actually enjoy it. What has playing it straight your whole life really done for you?”
She has a point.
“Live a little,” I repeat. “I can do that.” She lets out an excited squeal and floors the gas an instant before the light turns green. I swallow a gasp as my hands strike out for anything to hold on to. Vanessa laughs at my reaction.
“That’s a good song. Turn it up,” she says and starts to dance in the driver’s seat. “Come on, Tanzy.”
I turn up the volume and nod along to the beat.
“Aw, you’ve got more than that.”
“I don’t know how to dance,” I admit.
“You don’t have to know how to dance, you just have to know how to let go,” she says, and promptly releases the steering wheel. She twirls her hands above her head as we fly down a straight road.
“Vanessa!”
“I’m not stopping until you start,” she teases.
I do my best to copy her.
“Do you feel that? How can you not want to move? Close your eyes and feel it, Tanzy.”
Well, at least this way if we crash I won’t have to see it coming. I hold in a breath and close my eyes. The deep bass thumps like a heartbeat. My hands drum against my knees as the sounds flood my veins.
“There you go!” she says. I open my eyes and Vanessa grins in approval as she rocks her hips in her seat. I mimic her movement, feeling the little twists in my waist. My shoulders join in, rolling side to side with the music. Before I can stop them, my fingers press against the ceiling of her car and my body sways to the pounding rhythm.
Louisville’s lights fly past like a whirling disco ball as we speed through the city. Vanessa throws her head back with laughter, and I can’t help but want to feel just how she does in this exact moment. At last, I let go of the final thread of hesitation. I brace myself, sure it will feel like falling. But it doesn’t. Not at all. I’m soaring. I’m free.
The drive is over too soon. She turns the volume down as we pull into a small parking lot across from the bed and breakfast. I swipe at the loose strands of hair that have fallen across my face. She gives me a wink and turns off the car.
“This place is really pretty,” I say, regaining a little composure. But already I miss the rush as it evaporates from my skin and leaves me hungry for its return.
“I think so too. I always stay here whenever I’m in town,” she says, her voice descending from the high. But her eyes are still wild. I wonder if my eyes are every bit as bright. Every bit as unpredictable.
“You come here a lot?”
She answers with a nod and doesn’t add anything. Only one thing, or person, rather, can make her clam up like that. I let the topic drop and look up at the bed and breakfast. The quaint, three-story brick building is nestled between two high-rises. Its white wrap-around porch is completely out of place in the urban surroundings, but immediately it’s what I love most.
We grab our bags from the trunk and head inside. An older gentleman in traditional bellhop attire takes our bags and swings the white door open for us. The interior is made entirely of wood. Unfinished beams line the tall ceiling. Vintage lace curtains cover the old fashioned window panes. The foyer smells like cedar and pancakes. I follow Vanessa the short distance to the front desk. The concierge knows her by name and calls a personal greeting to her the moment he spots us. Yes, I’d say she comes here a lot. She finishes checking in and hands me a room key.
“Oh here, take this back. I’ll just lose it,” I say and hand it back to her.
“I hope not. I got us two separate rooms.”
“I don’t need my own room,” I say. I can’t afford my own room. The lingering adrenaline from our drive leaves me like a sunset, and there’s no way to hold on to the glow.
“I do.” She bites her lips as she pauses. “He’s coming to visit me later tonight.” My mouth rounds in a silent response. I’m guessing the “he” she’s talking about isn’t her husband. No wonder she comes here a lot. She turns away from me and continues up the next flight of stairs. “We’re on the third floor. This place only has six rooms. I like it because it’s nice and private. And the customer service is the best,” Vanessa adds without missing a beat.
“Vanessa, this whole day has been too good to be true. I need you to think of a way that I can repay you. I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s no need to repay anyone anything. And I know if I ever needed you that you would do everything in your power to help me. That’s what friends do. It’s what family does. And you’re like a sister to me. You know what you could do?” she asks, instantly brightening.
“Name it.”
“Go out with me tonight. And be that girl you were when we pulled in to the parking lot. She was a hell of a lot of fun,” she says with a wink.
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Good,” she says in mock seriousness. “Take some time to get settled. Let’s meet in the lobby in about an hour,” she says as we finally reach the third floor. “Your room is to the left and mine is to the right. It’s just us up here so make yourself at home.” Her cell phone rings in the pockets of her stiff jeans. She looks at the caller ID. Her eyes light up as she sees the name.
I’d bet the farm I know who that is.
Vanessa gives me a wave and starts toward her room. “Look cute. I know you know how,” she calls over her shoulder before answering the phone. I can’t hear what she says, but the silky sounds flowing into the receiver make her message clear: this conversation is just like her marriage. Off limits.
I walk to my end of the floor and swing open the heavy, unfinished door. A bed with a side table, a weathered rocking chair, and an oval, full-length mirror each claim a corner. I hoist my overnight bag onto the bed. It’s so full that the zipper seems in danger of busting at any moment. This is a lot of clothing for a one night trip. A gold, silky something sits neatly on top of the pile. I try to unfold it with no success. It’s just that short. I cringe and lay it carefully on the bed spread. The neckline plunges almost to the end of the fabric. Why not call it for what it is and not wear anything at all?
I swallow a lump of dread and nervously peek to see what else she’d packed. A pair of jeans. Well that’s not so scary. My relief doesn’t last. The jeans are skinny-cut and have the shortest zipper I’ve ever seen. A little yellow piece of paper is taped to the thigh. Wear these tonight. And yes, the top you hate, too. —V
But I don’t hate it. “Maybe it is time to live a little,” I whisper to myself in the empty room. I rally every bit of nerve I have and slip out of my customary attire. Goose bumps rise on my bare skin. I wriggle into the skinny jeans. The tight denim clings to every inch of my lower body. I hadn’t expected them to fit. They actually feel good, and that makes me more curious about the revealing top than I’d like to admit.
As I pull it over my head, the slinky fabric glides down my waist and leaves more than a hint of skin between its end and the low-cut top of my jeans. I make sure the door is closed and then practice swaying my hips in little circles. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
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I fish through the rest of the bag, forcibly denying any acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, I’m getting a little excited. My hand bumps against something that feels like shoes. Black patent heels. Great. This will be the closest I’ve come to killing myself all day. I hold on to the footboard of the bed as I work my feet into the two-inch heels and thank my lucky stars that Vanessa didn’t pack stilettos. The full-length mirror I’ve been ignoring tempts me. I take a couple of cautious steps and then stride slowly to meet myself. My reflection takes my breath away. I take another step, marveling that she mimics my every movement.
“That’s a girl that gets what she wants.” I jump at the sound of Vanessa’s voice and whirl to face the door I know I didn’t hear open.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You left the door cracked,” she says and shrugs a bare shoulder. No, I didn’t. Did I? Thoughts about whether or not the door was open disappear as I take in the sight of a very dressed up Vanessa. A steely silver dress cuffs her long neck in a mandarin collar, clings to every inch of her sculpted torso, and glides the very short distance to the hemline. Beautiful green earrings twinkle through their cover of loose blonde hair. The huge emeralds deepen the jade color of her eyes. If you didn’t know her, you’d never guess that stones that size would be real. But I know better.
“You look amazing. He must be quite a man,” I tease, still a little apprehensive about touching the subject.
“Oh honey, this isn’t for him. I dressed up for you. And you look pretty amazing yourself.”
“I feel amazing. I feel . . . different. It’s hard to explain. I’ve never worn anything like this.”
“The clothes don’t make the woman, the woman makes the clothes. I think you’re finally realizing your worth. That’s a good thing,” she says as she inspects me. “You just need one little thing.”
“What’s that?” I ask. To answer she pulls a tube of red lipstick from her jeweled clutch.
“Are you going to run away?”
“Nope. I trust you.”