accounting firm to which he had been loyal his whole life.
They were on their way back to Macy’s truck and trailer, parked and waiting to be unloaded, near her assigned stalls.
“I hate this part,” Macy said.
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“All the setup work. Hauling tack trunks in, bedding stalls, hanging buckets. There’s no better feeling than walking into an arena, with every eye on you, but I loathe the unloading and loading.”
“You could hire someone,” Jack suggested. They both knew Macy could afford it.
Macy shook her head. “You’re right—people do,” she said. “But as much as I dread all the work, the braiding and bathing, there’s something you lose when you don’t spend that kind of time with your horse. They get to know you better, bond better with you. And when you get into the ring, that’s key.”
Macy snapped Gounda’s lead rope onto his halter and backed him out of the trailer while Jack held the door open. He helped her unload the other two horses as well—young “projects” that Macy was showing to sell—and helped her cut open and spread the bags of sawdust that had been delivered to each of her stalls. They put up water and feed buckets and hung extension cords and fans outside the stalls. Then Jack held each of the three horses while Macy bathed them, amazed at how they would simply stand and let someone hose them off. He noted that Macy was the only non-Hispanic—and, he assumed, the only rider—bathing a horse in the wash stalls.
By the time each horse had been tucked back into its stall, matching sheets on each of them that bore Macy’s initials across the barrel area, it was nearly ten o’clock, the show grounds had filled to capacity, and Jack was exhausted.
“Almost done?” he asked Macy, planting himself on an overturned bucket in the middle of the aisle. She was puttering around in her tack stall, organizing and arranging saddles, bridles, and grooming equipment.
“Still have to braid,” she called out.
Jack’s spirits sank; he hadn’t eaten since they had stopped for lunch, and his stomach felt like it was about to eat itself. “I’m going to run and pick us up some food then,” he said to Macy. “Any requests?”
“Tim Hortons?” Macy said. “There’s one just outside of town—take a right out of the grounds. Turkey on white bread, a low-fat iced cap, and a few Timbits, please.” She rummaged through her tack trunk for the keys to her truck and tossed them to Jack. “Be careful with her,” she joked.
“Always,” he said.
He thought, driving to Tim Hortons, how strong Macy seemed. He didn’t know quite what he had expected, exactly. And, granted, he didn’t know what it was like for Macy in those moments before sleep came, when loneliness seemed magnified a million times over, or the shock of it immediately upon waking. But he knew what those moments were like for him, and truth be told, he wasn’t managing all that well as it was. Since his arrival on the island, though, Macy’s stoicism, her resolve to keep moving forward, had inspired him.
But upon returning from his food run, Jack walked down the last row of stalls in barn C with the sandwich and iced coffee Macy had ordered and saw her standing on her braiding stool, slumped over Gounda, her face buried against his neck and only half his mane braided. She didn’t look up.
He set the food on one of Macy’s shiny wood tack trunks rimmed with brass and entered Gounda’s stall, so that he faced her over the horse’s thick arch of a neck, which tapered into an equally thick head that was bobbing in and out of sleep.
“Macy?”
She still didn’t look up.
“I can’t do this,” she said, her face still buried in the horse’s neck.
“What was that?” he asked, not quite hearing her.
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Jack asked quietly. He brushed her hair, which had fallen on Jack’s side of the horse’s neck, away from her head.
“I
They were on their way back to Macy’s truck and trailer, parked and waiting to be unloaded, near her assigned stalls.
“I hate this part,” Macy said.
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“All the setup work. Hauling tack trunks in, bedding stalls, hanging buckets. There’s no better feeling than walking into an arena, with every eye on you, but I loathe the unloading and loading.”
“You could hire someone,” Jack suggested. They both knew Macy could afford it.
Macy shook her head. “You’re right—people do,” she said. “But as much as I dread all the work, the braiding and bathing, there’s something you lose when you don’t spend that kind of time with your horse. They get to know you better, bond better with you. And when you get into the ring, that’s key.”
Macy snapped Gounda’s lead rope onto his halter and backed him out of the trailer while Jack held the door open. He helped her unload the other two horses as well—young “projects” that Macy was showing to sell—and helped her cut open and spread the bags of sawdust that had been delivered to each of her stalls. They put up water and feed buckets and hung extension cords and fans outside the stalls. Then Jack held each of the three horses while Macy bathed them, amazed at how they would simply stand and let someone hose them off. He noted that Macy was the only non-Hispanic—and, he assumed, the only rider—bathing a horse in the wash stalls.
By the time each horse had been tucked back into its stall, matching sheets on each of them that bore Macy’s initials across the barrel area, it was nearly ten o’clock, the show grounds had filled to capacity, and Jack was exhausted.
“Almost done?” he asked Macy, planting himself on an overturned bucket in the middle of the aisle. She was puttering around in her tack stall, organizing and arranging saddles, bridles, and grooming equipment.
“Still have to braid,” she called out.
Jack’s spirits sank; he hadn’t eaten since they had stopped for lunch, and his stomach felt like it was about to eat itself. “I’m going to run and pick us up some food then,” he said to Macy. “Any requests?”
“Tim Hortons?” Macy said. “There’s one just outside of town—take a right out of the grounds. Turkey on white bread, a low-fat iced cap, and a few Timbits, please.” She rummaged through her tack trunk for the keys to her truck and tossed them to Jack. “Be careful with her,” she joked.
“Always,” he said.
He thought, driving to Tim Hortons, how strong Macy seemed. He didn’t know quite what he had expected, exactly. And, granted, he didn’t know what it was like for Macy in those moments before sleep came, when loneliness seemed magnified a million times over, or the shock of it immediately upon waking. But he knew what those moments were like for him, and truth be told, he wasn’t managing all that well as it was. Since his arrival on the island, though, Macy’s stoicism, her resolve to keep moving forward, had inspired him.
But upon returning from his food run, Jack walked down the last row of stalls in barn C with the sandwich and iced coffee Macy had ordered and saw her standing on her braiding stool, slumped over Gounda, her face buried against his neck and only half his mane braided. She didn’t look up.
He set the food on one of Macy’s shiny wood tack trunks rimmed with brass and entered Gounda’s stall, so that he faced her over the horse’s thick arch of a neck, which tapered into an equally thick head that was bobbing in and out of sleep.
“Macy?”
She still didn’t look up.
“I can’t do this,” she said, her face still buried in the horse’s neck.
“What was that?” he asked, not quite hearing her.
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Jack asked quietly. He brushed her hair, which had fallen on Jack’s side of the horse’s neck, away from her head.
“I
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