Page 24 of A Bittersweet Summer

“Wesley?” she says, her voice unsure.

I take a second too long to respond, clearing my throat. “Yeah? You need something?”

“Oh no!” she says, punctuating it with a breathy laugh. “I was just wondering where Rosemary is. I haven’t seen her since the one incident. I hope I didn’t make her feel weird.”

As if she could.

I keep running circles over the caked mud on the pony in front of me as he munches hay. “Back in Nashville,” I answer. “But Ididtalk to her. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No, it’s no big deal.” There’s another pause. “What do you do in your free time?” she finally asks, her voice hopeful.

“What do you mean?” Mocha, the pony standing in front of me, rubs his ear on the wall.

“Oh, you know,” she says. “Do you have any hobbies? Obviously, I used to ride, but it’s been forever since I’ve done that. I miss it sometimes.” She descends into her usual frenzy of conversation. “I mean, I’m totally fine not riding. I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was complaining. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

On second thought, if we know nothing about each other, the work environment may become miserable. I can’t have that. I breathe out a chuckle, ready to shock her muck boots right off. I halt myself after that thought. I don’t need to think about Cassidy losinganypieces of clothing. “I teach swing dancing.”

She pops in front of Mocha’s stall door with a brush in hand. “No way!” she says, and I smile at her enthusiastic look.

“Way.”

Her forearms rest on the top of the stall door, her head on top of them as she looks at me. “I went to some party about a year ago, and they had swing dance lessons there. I didn’t join that part—just the party, but it sounded fun!”

My brow furrows. There aren’t a lot of people who teach those kinds of classes around here. “Some place close?” I ask.

“Yes. It was called…” she snaps, looking up as she digs for the name. “The Handlebar Ranch.”

I halt my brushing, staring at her. “That’s where I teach ‘em.” My brain short-circuits as I try to remember if I’d seen her there. “Country Christmas Celebration?” I ask.

“Youtaught those?” she asks, aghast. “That has to be some kind of invisible string thing. I saw a video about it once. It’s where two people who are destined to be together cross paths in all these unknown ways beforejustthe right time—like there’san invisible string connecting them. They constantly weave in and out of each other’s lives until the exact right moment.” She sighs. “It’s so romantic.”

Her cheeks tint a pretty shade of pink as she shakes her head, looking horrified and embarrassed as she registers how that sounded. It just makes me smile wider. “This isn’t romance,” she says. “I’m just thinking more on a professional level. This is the right job for me, and I have a boss who has a mustache! Who doesn’t love a well-kept mustache?”

I laugh, something pulled from the deepest parts of my stomach. It’s the kind of laughter I haven’t seen signs of for a while. It reminds me of my teenage years driving four-wheelers on the trails behind the farm with friends—sneaking off to drink beer and flirt with girls.

“I’ll consider your mustache preferences next time I’m confronted with my razor.” That is to say, I will keep the mustache for the foreseeable future.

A sound echoes from the end of the barn, followed by a “Hello?”

I look at Mocha, mostly clean—on this side.

Cassidy greets our guests and then looks back at me. “Time to put this little tot to work with some brushes, wouldn’t you say?”

I shake my head. “No better time to learn than immediately.”

The lesson went by quickly, and as suspected, I was right about Cass’s presence with children.

I have a tendency to be a bit harsh and gruff. It’s not intentional, but I know I do it. The thing about riding is once you're on that horse, you’re responsible for the animal. You can’t just hop off when things get tough.

It’s a great lesson to learn, but parents don’t always take kindly to the approach.

I must be a crotchety old man stuck in the body of a man in his thirties.

“This is my favorite part,” Cassidy chirps, walking up to the stall where I slide the saddle off Mocha’s back.

The young girl, age six according to the forms I had the parents sign, stands with a carrot in her hand. Her wide brown eyes stare up at me, the helmet askew on the damp strands of hair plastered to her temples.

Sweat drips down my back, and I notice the way Cassidy’s face looks permanently flushed, her hair sticking to her forehead.