"County Commissioner Jenkins was interested in forming a coalition of ranchers facing similar federal overreach. He gave me three more names to contact."
I write quickly. “I can offer to organize the group and set things in motion.” Half of the effort is going through the motions of figuring out how a group like that is supposed to function. I’ve seen dozens of them and can offer consulting during the process. Once they have a leader in place, I can step back and let them run things.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t think it’s goingaway anytime soon so I’ll have to figure out how to work around it.
"Mary Gonzalez—the woman with the amazing hat with the lace. Did you see her?” Sarah gestures to her head.
I nod. “Custom made. I think everyone there asked her about it.” I’d planned to contact the designer and have one made for the NFR. Now that I won’t be going with Wyatt, there’s no point. I draw in a shaky breath and stare at the paper.
“She is someone high up in the National Teens Rodeo Association and offered to organize a letter-writing campaign. The kids might not be able to vote but their parents can and this could be big.”
My pen flies across the page. "That would be great.” My words are as flat as my heart. If someone took a picture of it right now it would look like a deflated balloon. But I’m writing. I’m speaking. I’m not curled up on my bed with a cup of tea and a box of tissues.
We make a list. Despite everything, I feel something like purpose returning.
“Oh,” my pen pauses as a memory hits me. “Susan Lockwood—the lawyer from Billings— offered to review our legal options pro bono."
Sarah looks up, surprise flickering across her face. "Susan Lockwood offered free legal work?"
"Yeah,” I reply. The name isn’t clicking for me, but it means something to Sarah. “Do you know her?”
Sits taller and says primly. "She dated Maxwell Whitmore shortly after his wife Maria passed away.”
I stare at her as if she’s just said that the table was made of crackers. “Maxwell had a girlfriend?” I wrinkle my nosethinking of the cold look in his eyes before he collapsed. “Ew.”
Sarah snorts but manages to maintain her composure.
"How is he?" I ask, feeling a little guilty about what I just said. I don't like Maxwell Whitmore, but watching someone collapse isn't something you forget easily.
"I heard he's not dead," Sarah shrugs.
"Did they take him to the hospital?"
"Not that I know of."
"How strange." I tap my pen on the table. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.” The way Ford stepped in and hauled him up–it was almost like he half expected something like this to happen.
“Whitmores keep to themselves.” Sarah shrugs. “What happens at Gritstone Ranch stays at Gritstone Ranch.”
An hour passes, maybe more. The coffee pot empties and Sarah makes another. The legal pad fills with names, action items, deadlines. By the time we finish, I have a list of things to do that should keep me busy enough to stay out of the hole my heart dug.
Sarah sets down her pen and stretches, rolling her shoulders. "You need to get out of this house. Clear your head."
I gather my things. “I’ll be in the cottage if you need me.”
"You should go for a ride," she says firmly. "I'm offering you Ace."
I blink, caught off guard. Half-standing, half-sitting. "That’s Wyatt's horse."
"I know it's his horse," she says, holding up her hands, "but he has a big heart and has had quite a few discussions with me over the years."
"With you?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
She grins, and for a moment I can see the young woman she must have been—fierce and joyful and unafraid. "Who do you think keeps him in shape when Wyatt's not here? That horse needs exercise and attention, and I've been riding him since he was green broke." Her expression softens. "He's a good listener. Better than most people, actually. And he won't judge you if you need to cry or scream or just be quiet for a while."
The idea of riding—of being out on the land with nothing but sky and wind and a horse who won't ask questions I can't answer—suddenly feels like the only thing that might keep me from falling apart completely. But being that close to Wyatt, riding his horse—I don’t know if I can.
"Thank you for the offer.” I whisper. “I’ll think about it."