Change Rein

by Anne Jolin

  To the left side sits one of our barns. It’s the larger of the two, housing nearly twenty horse stalls, a full room of tack lockers, and an attached full-size indoor riding arena. Its most unique attribute, however, is the apartment loft. Just inside the large barn doors, painted green to match the roof, there’s a stairwell to the right, which leads up to a thousand-square-foot, fully furnished apartment, with windows that look out onto the pastures lining one wall. The best part about it is it’s mine. As a child, I was frequently sneaking out in the middle of the night to lie in the horses’ stalls or simply muck about in the barn. Finally, the year I turned sixteen, my father simply had enough and converted the existing hayloft into an apartment.

  Farther down the road, there is a large outdoor riding ring, a lunging ring, and a series of turnout pastures for the horses. Behind those is the second barn. It houses only ten stalls and a feed room, and the upper floor is a hayloft. However, it too was designed to resemble its counterpart.

  When I glance up at the house, I check my spine and find that it’s lacking the steel I need to face my family. I’ve been training abroad for nearly three years, rarely coming home—with the exception of Christmas—so something about my return seems as much cowardly as it does humiliating. After rolling through the excuses in my mind, I settle on the idea that it’s best I unload Achilles before advancing to the house.

  After veering left, I put the truck in park outside the giant barn. I take a minute, glancing right and left, but I see no one. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t see much of anything. No horses. No people. Nothing. Which seems unusual, given that this is the barn usually boarded out to people and their horses. Taking advantage of the empty area, I slide out of the truck and make my way to the back of the trailer, where Achilles is moving around inside.

  “Cool your jets, big guy,” I drop the tone of my voice, increasing the softness and coo through the panels.

  My voice always changes when I talk to Chil.

  After unlatching the hooks, I open the back of the trailer. The gentleman at the airport helped me load Achilles, and I forgot how heavy the gate is. When I reach past my waist, my lower back spasms. Reaching around to press against the screaming area causes me to lose my grip, and the gate crashes the remaining three feet onto the pavement. The sound of the gate echoes through the courtyard and out in the fields. Shit. Achilles neighs wildly as he stomps and shifts his weight nervously.

  Certain that the sound scared him, I grip the side wall to steady myself before using it to haul my small frame inside the trailer to comfort him. “Easy, Chil,” I hum.

  His ears twitch backwards at the tone of my voice. I touch him softly on his butt before moving my hand gently over his back towards his neck. His muscles ease under the recognition of my touch, and he swings his head to the left, straining to see my movements.

  After pushing off the wall with my other hand, I hook my other hand under his neck and lean into him for support. “Sorry, big guy. Didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologize into his neck.

  After unclipping the ropes from his halter, I attach the lead rope underneath his chin and rub his nose with the palm of my hand. We stand like that for a few minutes, his massive frame taking the weight of my smaller one until the pain in my back subsides. When I feel as though my strength has returned, I test it by pulling away from him and flattening my feet inside my cowboy boots.

  No buckling.

  No crying.

  We’re good.

  While pressing a finger into his front, I make a clucking sound with my tongue, and Achilles begins to back out of the trailer. He’s done this so many times that I’m certain he could nearly do it without any guidance from me. After looping the lead rope over his neck, I give him a quick kiss on the forehead and then walk towards one of the single-horse turnout pens. Achilles follows behind me despite the fact I’m in no way holding on to him.

  The memory of Harlow’s voice the first time he caught me doing this rings in my ear. “You put too much trust in that horse, London. He’s still an animal.”

  Upon reaching the gate, I slip Achilles’ halter over his massive head and cluck my tongue again. He takes off into the field, every bit the beautiful, raw power he is, and like every time, I’m mesmerized by the way he moves, elegant and graceful.

  “Welcome home, Chil,” I say as he finally settles on a patch of grass to graze on.

  “Still talking to horses, I see.”

  Startled, I spin around on my heel, nearly falling flat on my face. His deep chuckle twists into the wind, and my lips purse together in annoyance.

  “Jesus, Owen. You scared the shit out of me.” I snarl, wincing at the sting in my lower back.

  My brother tosses his head back. This time, his laughter takes a stronger presence in the open area. “Nice to see you too, sis.” Then he smirks, folding his arms over his chest and nodding the tip of his black cowboy hat in my direction.

  While I am the middle child, Owen is the oldest and, by far, the wildest. He’ll be thirty next year, and he’s one of Canada’s highest-ranked bareback bronc riders in the rodeo circuit. Towering over me, he leans his hip against the fence, and I marvel at how much he looks like our father. It’s uncanny, really, and for some reason, it makes my eyes water, and all thoughts of kicking him in the shins for scaring me fly out the window.

  “Lord love a duck, London.” He huffs, hauling me into his arms.

  Burying my face into his shirt, I let a single tear fall. “I missed you.”

  “Missed you too, Bridge.”

  My shoulders shake with laughter at the sound of my old nickname.

  After giving me a squeeze, he pulls me away from him and playfully pretends to knock my chin with his fists a few times. “There she is.”

  Owen started calling me London Bridge when we were little kids, and eventually, he shortened it to Bridge. Even though it’s an odd nickname, it took off like wildfire in our family. I was always falling off horses when I was younger, mostly due to the fact I thought I could ride anything. I was utterly fearless, and thus, Owen loved to chant, “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” every time I took a tumble off a horse, which was often.

  “You got old,” I tease, jabbing him in the stomach. Somehow, it manages to hurt me more than him, so I shake my wrist.

  The playful lines in his face disappear. “How are you holding up?”

  Shrugging, I let my eyes fall to the ground. “Fine.”

  “Fine, eh?” he argues. “I saw the—”

  “The magazine article. It’s bad. I know.”

  “The guy’s a prick, London,” he growls, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “I bet you no one even read it.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him as a smirk forms on my lips.

  “Okay, well, maybe everyone probably read it.”

  I wince outwardly at the idea that our small town has not only seen my failure displayed on their televisions, but also read the slaughtering of my career.

  “Hardly changes the fact his face deserves to make its acquaintance with your scary big brother’s fists.”

  “I think it defeats the purpose if you have to call yourself scary in order to get the point across.” I laugh, walking in step with him towards the house.

  “Rude,” he protests, giving me a noogie. “You shouldn’t rain on people’s parades, London.”

  “London!” a female voice shrieks.

  Looking up, I see my little sister come barreling down the steps of the front porch, her hair whipping in the breeze.

  It’s obvious we’re sisters. We both have Momma’s white-blond hair and blue eyes and Daddy’s dark eyelashes, but where I am more slender, Aurora is a twenty-two-year-old, curvy bombshell, and her heart is nearly an exact copy of our mother’s. While I guard mine and choose to protect its breaks by being hard, Aurora is so soft. She gives and doesn’t hold her love back from anyone.

  She’s about to launch herself at me, when Owen catches her midair
.

  “Whoa, killer. Bridge is broken, remember?” he reminds her.

  Swatting at his arms, she gripes, “I know, you goose. I wasn’t going to plow her to the ground.”

  “Looked like it.” I laugh at the way she beams, even when she’s trying to come across angry.

  After finally breaking free from our brother, she folds her arms around me. “I missed you,” she chokes out in little sobs into the crook of my neck.

  “Hey,” I say, running my hand over her hair. “I’m sorry.” For what? I’m not exactly sure. For everything, probably. For not having been here as often as I should have.

  “You guys are going to be the death of Dad with all of this crying!” Owen proclaims from somewhere beside us before his boot steps sound on the porch and the screen door closes.

  Pulling away from me, Aurora palms my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  I try to look away from her, but I can’t. I know what she’s sorry for. I know what everyone’s sorry for. But the look that comes with it is always the worst—pity. Instead of answering her, I nod.

  Taking that as a cue, she wipes her cheeks off and nods toward the driveway. “Daddy went to get some wine for you. He’ll be back soon. You still drink wine, right?”

  “Right.”

  Daddy never keeps any in the house. I think that’s because it reminds him of Momma, and since Aurora doesn’t drink and Owen doesn’t live there, there’s no need to have it on hand.

  “I cleaned up the apartment for you, and I put some snacks in the fridge, but I didn’t bother with too much food, as I figured you’d come eat with us most nights anyway,” she babbles, dragging me into the house.

  I acknowledge her with little nods, but my senses are completely overwhelmed the moment my boots cross the threshold of our house. It looks the same as always, knitted couch pillows still adorn the various furniture and given Aurora’s love of baking, which she got from our mother, the smell of baking cherries still reaches your nose as you walk in the door. After toeing off my boots in the entryway, I follow her into the kitchen.

  “Get your filthy man-hands away from my pie,” my sister snarls, picking up a serving knife and waving it in Owen’s direction, “or you’ll become the next episode of Criminal Minds, you hear me?”

  Sibling banter has always been unique with the three of us. Hovering somewhere between loving and then hoping people don’t overhear us because they’d likely want to lock us up. Nonetheless, hearing it makes my heart swell.

  “Has anyone here even gotten wine from that liquor store in the last decade?” my father huffs, setting his twelve-pack and a bottle of wine down on the counter. “It’s absurd. Bloody Google Maps in that joint if you ask me,” he announces before dramatically growling off the countries that have their own wine sections at the local Liquor Barn. He’s nearly finished most of Europe when he finally sees me standing in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I whisper, feeling somewhat out of place in the home I grew up in.

  “London Bridge,” he says before swallowing against the lump in his throat. “You’re home.”

  “Yeah,” I let out lamely, shifting on my feet.

  Opening his arms, he grins, showing off the wrinkles of a life well lived. “Well, give the old fart a hug, would ya?”

  There are men—salt-of-the-Earth, work-hard, love-hard, honest men who’d give you the shirt off their back when you really needed it—and my dad is the very finest of that bunch. While, to us kids, he’s a loving yet burly teddy bear who protects us from the monsters under our beds, to the outside world, Larry Daniels looks like a grizzly bear—the kind you absolutely do not mess with. Not that I’m suggesting messing with any bears is a particularly wise life choice, but for argument’s sake, you get my drift.

  He’s nearly six-foot-four, always sporting a five-o’clock shadow, and the epitome of rough around the edges. His frame is hulking—not just in height, but size in general, after years of working on a farm. That, coupled with the fact he’s nearly always carrying a buck knife on his belt, means he’s pretty intimidating. And while I may have gotten my dainty European looks from my mother, I definitely got my mouth from my father. Heaven knows I have a mouth like a sailor, despite years of people telling me women oughta sound like a Hallmark card.

  Looking at him now, I’d say the only difference between him and Owen, obviously other than age, is that my brother has tattoos. Otherwise, they’re like carbon copies of each other.

  After moving around the island, I step into his arms, and the moment I breathe in the smell of his Brute cologne, my composure shatters. Making fists in his shirt, I cry against him.

  “I know, sweet girl,” he sympathizes with a softness in his rough voice meant only for his children. “Your daddy’s got big shoulders, London. Why don’t you let me carry some of that weight you’ve been holding?”

  Looking up at him, I feel so guilty for the time with my family my ambition has cost me.

  “At least for a little while.” He winks.

  After throwing my arms up around his neck, I squeeze him as hard as I can without hurting myself. “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” he says back, his jaw tight. Daddy’s never been good with crying daughters.

  “Can we eat already?” Owen whines.

  I turn just in time to see Aurora whack him in the back of the head with her oven mitt.

  “They were having a moment, you ass clown.”

  I’m home.

  Edmonton, Alberta

  “DO I SOUND LIKE I give a shit?” I bark into the receiver.

  “It’s illegal.”

  After turning the phone on speaker, I toss it onto the bathroom counter. “Quit pretending you have a moral compass, Francis,” I huff, sliding my dress shirt up my back, leaving it unbuttoned in the front. “I want the accident to run in this week’s Sunday paper.”

  “It’s going to cost you, Tucker.”

  Angling my chin to the side, I eye the two-day-old stubble shadowing my jaw in the mirror. “Whatever it costs, get it done.”

  “Do you want any”—he hesitates, clearing his throat—“casualties?”

  As I grab the edge of my marble counter, my knuckles turn white. “Not a hair harmed, Francis.” My voice is heavy with barely harnessed fury at the mere suggestion. “You’d do well to pass that down the line, as I’ll no doubt seek retribution for any losses I incur.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After ending the call, I snag the tie on the counter and hang it over the back of my neck. I’m so distracted these days that I can barely get anything done. The least of which seems to be dressing myself.

  Grabbing my Armani suit coat off the edge of my bed, I eye the newspaper article beside it. For two weeks, I’ve carried the catastrophe with me everywhere. Looking at it now overwhelms me with equal parts anger and lust. The absurdity of its claims is absolute bullshit, but the underlying depth of beauty still manages to overshadow it. Nonetheless, I’ll have his head on a platter in due time, even if I have to pay someone to cut it off and serve it to me.

  “Breakfast, sir?” my housekeeper offers when the heels of my cowboy boots ring out on the kitchen tile.

  “No, thank you, Sarah.”

  The older woman scowls at me, never happy when I skip breakfast.

  “I’ll be out of town for the remainder of the week. Go spend some time with your family.”

  “I couldn’t hardly. There’s so much to do—”

  “Your son is here.” Looking up from working the knot on my tie, I can see the confusion on her face. “His visa has been pushed through. In fact”—I lift my sleeve to check the time on my watch—“his flight’s arriving in less than an hour.” Stepping forward, I lean down, kissing her once on the cheek. “There’s a car waiting outside to take you to the airport. I’ll see you in a few weeks’ time.”

  Sarah has been my housekeeper, cook, and friend for the last nine years. Her son has been unsuccessfully trying to immigrate from Greece on a stu
dent visa. So I had a friend of a friend push the paperwork through as a favor.

  “Come back here, you rascal!” she shrieks, all five-foot-one of her scurrying up behind me. “Eat,” she demands, shoving a bagel into the outside pocket of my briefcase. “And thank you.” Her bottom lip wobbles as tears pool in her eyes.

  I kiss her once more on the top of her head. “It’s my pleasure. If you need more time to get him settled, let me know,” I say before stepping around her and opening the door to my attached garage.

  Some might think it’s particularly odd that I have a four-car garage but only two vehicles. However, my architect would hear of nothing smaller during the design of the house. I believe he said it was imperative that someone of my wealth and subsequent status have more than two doors. I came close to kicking his mouthy, money-grubbing ass off my property, but he managed to save himself. Selling me on the idea when he asked where my wife would park if I only had two. Do I have a wife? No. Nonetheless, the point was a solid one.

  After rounding the front of my red convertible Corvette, I slide onto the tan leather seat and toss my briefcase onto the passenger’s seat. After pressing the garage door opener on my visor, I roll the engine over while the morning light floods the room. It’s been a particularly hot summer in Alberta, wildfires clearing out massive areas at a time without much warning. I can feel the strength behind the sun as I pull out into the driveway.

  The car I sent for Sarah is gone, so I take a minute to admire the home I had built nearly ten years ago. In fact, it’ll be ten years come October, the same month as my thirty-third birthday. If anything, I’ve grown to love it more every day.

  The roughly eight-thousand-square-foot log home sits on nearly three hundred acres of farmland. The entire house is encased in floor-to-ceiling windows that run in line with the triangle-shaped roof. The red front door was my mother’s idea, as was the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. While I’ll admit I balked at the idea at first, the result is gorgeous. The stone fountain is a roughly eight-foot-high horse rearing onto its back legs, and water cascades around it into the pool below during the summer. Either that or the deck running the expanse of the house is my favorite feature.