I sit beside my grandfather's bed, holding onto his gnarled hand with both of my own. Machines beep softly, reassuringly, and the dim light hides a multitude of things I don't want to think about. Like the mangled body under the pulled up blankets, or the bloody wall at the ranch where a half ton of angry beef pinned my hero and proved that he was only human.
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The skin under my fingers is cool, fragile and liver spotted around the calluses I keep tracing. His tarnished silver wedding band, worn thin from decades of exposure to ranch life, is loose on his finger, but trapped by his swollen, knotty knuckles. I try to polish it without waking him, but his harsh breathing changes and he opens his eyes, looking around wildly before his gaze settles on me. He relaxes back into the bed.
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"Twister," he rasps. His voice is thick and rough, slurred from morphine. I squeeze his hand tighter, but there's no response. He can't feel it, the doctors say. I still hold on.
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"I'm here, Pops. Right here."
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His tongue pushes at his dry lips and I reach for the cup of water on the side table, guiding the straw between his lips. He falls back after a few sips.
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"Bryan?" I can tell he's searching as much of the room as he can see for my brother, squinting into the shadows.
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"He's coming. Had to find someone to take his stock on to Cheyenne for him, but he's coming in on the first flight. Marco's going to get him right now."
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"I'm sorry, Twister." Pop's eyes close as if he's in pain, although the doctors said that with his back broken in so many places, there's no way he has any feeling below the neck. "Sorry, little girl."
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"It's okay. It's gonna be okay." I press my cheek to the back of his hand. His breathing evens out again, even those few sentences have exhausted him. I swipe at my face with the heel of my hand, grinding my stupid tears away.
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Pops has always been a giant, broad shouldered and gnarled with muscle from working the ranch his whole life. His bushy mustache and shock of iron grey hair always made him look like a blue eyed Sam Elliott. When I was little, sitting on his shoulders felt like I could reach right up and grab clouds out of the sky.
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He looks small and shrunken in the bed, his skin gray and eyes sunken in, but his hands are the same. The same hands that fitted my first boots to my feet, that put me up on the saddle of my first pony. He's the most stable parent I've ever had, and the thought that I'm losing him doesn't seem real yet. Any minute now he's going to growl at me to get the vet box, so he can slap some liniment on it and get back to work. He has to. Nothing else makes sense.
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I check my phone, which hasn't left my lap in hours, not since I ran from the parking lot to this chair, leaving our foreman Marco and his wife hurrying behind me. Rosa is still here, somewhere. Probably trying to contact everyone and fill them in. I know where Marco is. There's still no text from my brother, letting me know he's touched down. I turn the phone over, as though the light from the screen could wake up my grandfather.
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I thread my fingers back through his unresponsive ones and lay my cheek on his arm, closing my eyes. Maybe when I open them again, this nightmare will be over.
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***
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"Hey, Queenie." The big hand on my shoulder is gentle, but it still startles me awake. I flail for a moment, my butt sliding on the hard plastic chair, and lose my grip on my grandfather's hand. I grope my way back to his fingers, reassuring myself that they're still warm, and shove my heavy hair out of my face.
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Bryan's crooked smile is strained as he watches me, his thumbs tucked in his front pockets as he rocks back on his heels. He looks good, even with his clothes rumpled from traveling and dark circles under his eyes. I push myself up and into his arms for a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of cows, dust, leather, and his cologne. He squeezes me tight, patting my back and shushing me as the tears break free.
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"Hey, hey, it's okay. We've got this."
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Granddad snorts from the bed, coughing wetly, his weak voice rasping between us. "Lying ass boy. Twister knows better."
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Bryan and I turn back to him, and I step back to allow my brother to take my place by our grandfather's side. Pops looks at me, moving his head weakly towards the side table, and I hurry to get him a drink and adjust the bed so he can sit up and look at Bryan.
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"Hey, Pops."
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"Took you long enough," he grumbles, but his eyes soften. "How's the stock?"
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"Good." Bryan clears his throat, his gaze darting away from the hospital bed, around the room. "They're fine."
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"Raina." Pops cuts his eyes to the door. "Take a walk. Gotta talk to the boy."
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I bristle a little at being dismissed like a child, but Bryan's blue eyes plead with me, and I deflate. I drop a kiss on my granddad's forehead and exit the dim room. The corridor lights feel like being spotlighted after so long in the dark, and I shield my eyes with my hand, blinking furiously.
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"Raina?"
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I turn slowly towards the almost familiar voice. The elegant blonde woman standing with the doctor starts towards me, holding out her diamond adorned hands.
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"Jenna." I shove my own hands into my pockets, taking a couple steps back. I look past her, searching for a friendly face, but the only person I recognize in the hallway is the doctor. "What are you doing here?"
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My mother's pretty face thins down in disapproval, a muscle twitching in her smooth cheek before she visibly makes the effort to relax. She doesn't frown- frowning creates wrinkles, and Jenna doesn't do wrinkles. It's part of the trophy wife creed.
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"Well, of course I came, honey! As soon as your brother called me, I told Warren, we have to go right away, the children need us. I'm still your mother, after all." I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I was barely walking when she took off, leaving my brother and I to be raised by my dad and grandfather while she ran away to California to start a new life and family far from the "filth" of our Texas ranch. Apart from an occasional phone call on holidays and boxes of mailed presents sent periodically, I don't remember the last time I had any kind of contact with the woman standing in front of me, putting on the devoted mother act.
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Warren strolls up behind her, putting his arm around her thin shoulders. His teeth are too white in his darkly tanned face, and his gaze skates over me from head to toe, making me feel vaguely oily and in need of a shower.
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"Raina, you look good. Considering the circumstances, of course," he hurries to add. His creepy smile doesn't change at all.
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"Warren. How's.. " I fish for the names of the stepsister and half brother I've only met a handful of times. "Carol and Jacob?"
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"Courtney and Joaquin are fine," my mother interjects testily. She opens her mouth to continue, but Bryan appears at Pop's door as there's a sudden bustle at the nurses station down the hall.
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"Raina." His bleak face and wet eyes send me stumbling past my mother, shoving her rudely or of the way so I can get back to my real parent's side.
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The monotone whine of the machines and my grandfather's slack jaw are something viewed down a long tunnel, the edges of my vision eaten away by black stars. Gentle hands and voices jostle me out of the way, further from the bed. I keep my eyes on his chest, willing it to rise. There's a low, keening whine coming from somewhere, toneless and aggravating.
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Bryan's grip on my shoulders is harsh. He gives me a sharp shake, forcing me to look at him. My heart restarts with a painful thump and I gasp for air. The sound cuts off abruptly, and I realize it was coming from me. I try to focus on Bryan's face, but all I can see is watercolor blurs, my cheeks hot and wet with tears.
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"Aw, hell. Queenie…" He enfolds me into his embrace and I collapse, wailing into his shoulder until someone in a white coat comes and gives me a shot of something that sends me far, far away.
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***
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The brush goes around in big circles, the motion hypnotic and soothing. I follow it with my other hand, smoothing the hair along Blue's flank. The mingled black and white hairs darken to pure black as I work my way down his hock, and he jerks his leg in an empty threat. I catch his hoof in my hand in a gentle reminder, and he settles back into stillness. I work my way around the cranky gelding's body, losing myself in the muscle memory of grooming.
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When nothing in the world makes sense, go to the barn. It's always been my place to run and hide, from the first time a bully pushed me down on the playground to my first broken heart in eighth grade. My dad and grandfather always knew where to find me when things went sideways, tucked into some pony's stall and nursing my bruised soul. I've been in Blue's stall ever since I woke up at home, with a house full of people talking in hushed whispers. Only this time, there's no one to come ambling out of the house with a cup of coffee and a suggestion of taking a ride to Dairy Queen.
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I take my time putting new braids in Blue's mane, focusing on every section being smooth and even, bands laid just right. He stands hipshot, ears laid half back, giving me the occasional evil look out of the corner of his eyes. It's all for show, where I'm concerned at least. He's a part-time outlaw at best, nasty on the ground and dirty under saddle with the hands, but he and I worked out our differences years ago.
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"Still riding this sack of dog food?" Bryan leans over the stall door. Blue bares his teeth, snaking his head towards my brother with his ears flattened against his head. I pop his shoulder and growl, and he shifts over, craning his neck around at me with a suddenly innocent look.
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"Pretty fancy dog food," I say, thinking about the trophies in the den. "Top Ten at Regional last year."
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"You still couldn't pay me enough to throw a leg over him. Pops should have sent him to the sale as a colt. Lucky for this rank bastard you have a soft spot for roans."
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I roll my eyes, offering the flat of my hand to the horse. He presses his muzzle into my palm, velvet lips rubbing back and forth. I lean into his shoulder, soaking up the warmth of the big body.
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"Yeah. Lucky."
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The three of us stand in silence for a while, Bryan staring off into the distance while I fuss with braiding Blue's forelock.
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"We're going to have the funeral Friday," Bryan finally says. "They're going to let Dad attend."
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I move too quickly and Blue spooks, crowding me like a calf, swinging his haunches towards the door with evil intent in his eyes. I shush him, but he barges in between me and my brother, skin twitching with aggravation. I push his head out of the way and duck under his neck. Bryan steps back to let me out of the stall, staying well out of reach of the gelding's blocky teeth.
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"How did you manage that?"
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"Warren pulled some strings. They'll let him come to the service, and then he goes back that night."
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"Oh."
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I don't know what to feel. My insides are a tangled mess. If my daddy hadn't gotten caught being enough of a dumbass to earn him a decade in the federal penitentiary, he would have been here, bringing the young bulls in off the range, and Pops wouldn't have been the one handling the crush. Angers boils up in my throat, hot and tight, and it's hard to breathe suddenly.
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"Mom and Warren are headed to the hotel in town. It'd be nice if you'd come see them off."
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"I can't." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathy and strangled. "I can't handle them right now."
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Bryan rubs his hand over his face in frustration.
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"Fine. That's… fine." He looks like he wants to say more, but he just sighs and turns back towards the house. "Don't stay out here all night, Raina. You need to rest up."
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"Okay," I manage to croak out. As soon as he leaves the barn, I go to grab my tack. I shiver a little, feeling chilled. Pop's heavy denim jacket is hanging on the nail where he always left it, and I grab it, bringing it to my nose. It smells like hay and Marlboros, pine soap and home. I shrug into it, rolling the cuffs back.
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My hands shake so badly I have to try twice to slip the bridle over Blue's head. He shoves his forehead against my hip, rubbing his face on me in a rare display of affection. It steadies me enough that I tighten my girth without dropping anything. Blue pushes impatiently at the stall door and strides out into the aisle, ears pricked purposefully towards the hard packed gravel leading out to the back pastures.
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I swing into the saddle as Blue leaves the barn. By the time my foot slides into the opposite stirrup, he's already moved into a ground covering lope, his hooves drumming on the dry ground. I try to check him automatically, and he pops in an irritated kick midstride, his temper as uncertain as mine.
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I give him his head, recklessly deciding it doesn't make a difference where we go. We both know these acres in every season and shade, and we've found our way home in the dark before. By the time he settles down to a trot, then a walk, the wind has pulled tears from my eyes and my hair out of its braid.
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"Alright, boy." I lean forward to slap his damp neck and take my bearings. Blue snorts, tugging lightly at the reins, his nose pointing towards the creek. I let him wade into the shallow water and shove his face into the current. Cottonwood seeds swirl through the air, glowing in the last deep golden light of the day. I breathe deeply, trying to pull some sort of peace into myself.
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Blue paws at the water, thinking about rolling, and I shake myself out of my funk to steer him out of the creek and along the bank. A coyote yips in the distance, and the rest of the pack answers, their sharp voices rising and falling. Blue's ears flick back, his tail snapping at my leg as he picks up a trot in the general direction of home. We won't make it back before the light goes, but that's okay. I trust him to take me home.
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