I disentangle myself from the bedding and swing my feet to the floor. The scratchy indoor/outdoor carpeting beneath them makes me wonder if I spent the night on a miniature golf course. I have to pee something fierce, but I don’t want to run into Sam in the hall. He might be my uncle, but I’m not ready yet to show off my pajamas — T-shirt and flannel sweats actually — nor my morning bed head. So I dance around as I throw on jeans and a fresh T-shirt and drag a brush through my hair.
By the time I make it out to the kitchen, I feel nearly human. My bed is even made, and yesterday’s underwear is stashed away in a pocket of my suitcase.
Sam is on his cell. “Great,” he says to the person on the other end. “That sounds real good. See you about ten.” He switches off the phone and smiles. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say good afternoon?”
I make a face. “It’s not late. At home I wouldn’t be up for a couple more hours yet.”
He makes tut-tutting noises. “Shame on you. And shame on your mother for allowing that.”
“Ha!” I retort. “She sleeps later than I do! She doesn’t move until she smells the coffee.”
Sam lowers his head and squints at me through his eyebrows. “So that’s where you learned that trick.”
Now I feel like a jerk. I shake my head. “No. I know it’s my day to cook. I didn’t forget. I would have made the coffee. Really. I just didn’t realize I was going to have to set the alarm to do it.” I look past him to the dirty plate and frying pan on the counter. “I guess I missed breakfast, huh?”
“There’s coffee,” he says, “and juice in the fridge. I would’ve rustled up something for you, but I didn’t know what kind of breakfast food you like — or if you even eat breakfast.” He spreads his arms to take in the kitchen. “But you’re welcome to cook up whatever you can find.” He glances at the clock on the stove. “The only thing is we need to get going by nine if we’re going to have that tour of Webb’s River.”
The air is still full of bacon and egg smells. That’s the breakfast my stomach is set on, but there’s no way I can cook, eat, and clean up in thirty minutes.
I sigh and reach for the coffee pot. “Do you have any cereal?”
Chapter Seven
By 9:00 a.m. on the nose, we’re on our way to Highway 97 via a web of back roads I never noticed the day before. Finally, I’m seeing some houses and the occasional business. When we get to the highway, Lizzie heads west. But only for a minute. Before she even gets up to speed, Sam turns her onto another secondary road on the opposite side of the highway.
This is clearly the hub of Webb’s River. Though it’s just one secluded road, I spot, scattered among the trees, an art studio, a woodworking shop, a nursery, a small medical/dental office, a junkyard, and a brew-your-own wine store. I also see signs advertising home businesses.
After about ten minutes, Lizzie starts down a private driveway. The narrow road zigzags through the trees. So do the sun’s rays, dappling the road with broken light.
“Where are we going?” I ask. The words are barely out of my mouth when Lizzie breaks free of the trees. Straight ahead is an open gate under a wrought iron arch with a sign. GREENER PASTURES — JOHN TOOBY & SONS. Then I see a sprawling house and barns, cattle grazing in a distant field, and corrals of horses. Lizzie crunches along the gravel drive, churning up clouds of dust. Finally, we come to a stop in front of a barn.
“Why are we here?” I ask as we get out of the truck.
“You want to learn to ride, don’t you?” Sam says.
“I thought you were going to teach me.”
“I would, but I have to go to 100 Mile House this morning.”
“Couldn’t I come with you? We could do the riding thing later.”
He shakes his head. “Not this time. It’s business. You’d be bored — believe me. Besides, this way we can kill two birds with one stone.” He winks. “You’ll be fine. If there’s one thing these Tooby boys know, it’s horses.”
———
Turns out there are four Tooby boys, but it is son #3 who is assigned the task of turning me into a horsewoman. His name is Micah, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous, so I don’t care what he knows about horses.
“Hey, Dani.” His voice is low and smooth. He slides a finger along the brim of his black Stetson and flashes me an orthodontically perfect, toothpaste-commercial smile. That’s when the bones in my legs vaporize, and I feel like I’m learning to ice-skate all over again. Thank god the wall of the barn is there to hold me up.
“Hey.” His blue eyes are hypnotic. I try to look away, but I can’t seem to. Don’t want to.
It’s Micah who breaks the spell. “Well, I guess we better find you a horse.” He points to one of the corrals. As we walk toward it, he says, “So Sam is your uncle, huh?”
I nod.
“And you’re staying with him?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Six weeks.” I keep my gaze fixed on the corral. It’s easier to act normal if I don’t look at Micah. “My mom’s away on a trip,” I say, but I don’t go into details.
“So where’s home?”
“Vancouver.”
“Big city. Lucky you.” Then, because we’ve reached the corral, Micah changes the subject. “All these horses are real gentle — perfect for greenhorns.”
I sigh. “Well, they don’t come any green-hornier than me.” Too late, I realize what I’ve said, and I am instantly mortified. My face is burning, so I know it has to be red. I am such a loser! I wish for a speeding bus or maybe a herd of stampeding cattle to throw myself under. Please, God, take me now. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I mumble.
Micah just smiles and turns back to the corral. “Do you see anything you like?”
Yeah, I do. Oh, right — he’s talking about the horses. I focus all my attention on the corral. I know there must be criteria for choosing a mount, but since I have no idea what it is, I am forced to come up with my own. Mostly, it has to do with appearance. One horse has a scraggly tail. A second has wild eyes. A third is the wrong colour, and a fourth has a sway back. I certainly don’t want the snorter, nor the one with flies buzzing round it. The only horse I’m drawn to is a tawny-coloured mare with a black mane. “That one.” I point it out to Micah.
“Good choice,” he says. “Sweetpea is as gentle as they come. What made you pick her?”
I’m embarrassed to explain my selection process, so I just shrug. “She reminds me of Sam’s horse.”
“There’s a good reason for that,” Micah says. “Sweetpea is Jasmine’s dam.” Then he smiles, and I feel myself starting to melt again. I throw my arms over the top rail of the fence and pretend to study Sweetpea more closely.
“She doesn’t have the diamond on her nose like Jasmine,” I tell him.
“Well, her sire had a little input in the matter too, if you know what I mean.”
I know exactly what he means. I also know he’s smiling again, but I don’t dare look. My knees will buckle for sure.
He ducks between the rails and strolls across the corral. Sweetpea neighs as he approaches but doesn’t move a muscle while he straps a bridle on her. Then he leads her back to where I am and wraps the reins around a rail.
He pats Sweetpea’s shoulder. “You ladies get acquainted while I saddle up.”
Sweetpea