We stand in silence for a moment, soaking up the unusually warm fall day as we watch Brown Sugar run around and kick up dirt. She’s a playful horse, and when she lays down and starts rolling on her back, I can’t help but smile even wider.
“When will she be introduced to the others?” I ask.
“Soon, she just needs to be quarantined for a bit longer. But I’ll start by introducing her to Maggie, and see how they get along.”
“I still think you could have given Bill a shot,” I say. “Not with her, obviously. But with Jazz Apple. You could have asked him what barn he wanted to board and train with. It could have worked out.”
Candice is silent for a moment, and I almost think that she’s ignoring the question, until she says, “I know. I could have. There are a few local barns that I’d be happy with her going to, and trainers who I know and respect. But I trust my gut, and my gut said no.”
I don’t mention that it seems like her gut might always say no—that she’d do anything in her power to make sure a horse was well cared for even if it meant keeping them here forever.
“Even if we could really use the money,” she adds. “Like really, really.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Like, why are we so poor?” she asks, her hackles rising.
“No, I meant why don’t you have more, I don’t know, fundraisers? Hell, even social media?”
Candice makes a huffing noise and squares her shoulders, ready to fight me once more.
“I’m not trying to rile you up,” I say. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“How many people did you see around the barn earlier?” she asks.
“Well, just Tomás. Jenny was around too, but mostly in the barn office.”
“Exactly. Tomás is the only full-time stable hand, and he also helps me with training. Jenny helps take care of the goats, and does some accounting and payroll. She also runs a small business out of her trailer, so she’s only a part time employee. Beau is our vet, obviously, and he puts together rehab plans forall of the rescues. And then it’s just me for literally everything else. So the short answer is: time, Nathan. Time is why we don’t do more fundraisers or social media.”
“And what’s the long answer?” I ask.
“The long answer is that I suck at those things, and when my grandparents were still alive…”
She trails off as her voice starts to shake a bit, and I’m reminded that this grief is still raw and fresh for the Wilson siblings. Their grandparents only died two years ago, and from what Beau has said, they were more like parents.
“When they were alive, we had more money because we hadn’t spent it all on medical bills yet.”
My heart clenches and aches in my chest for her, and for Beau.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really mean it, even if she’d never believe me.
She doesn’t acknowledge it but says, “So that’s it. That’s the long version of the story. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to run a social media account for the barn anyway.” She fishes around in her pockets and pulls out her phone. She tosses it at me without warning, and I manage to catch it.
“Can this thing even run social media apps?” I joke.
“It works fine,” she grinds out. “But just take a look.”
I look at the app she’s pulled up and see that it’s Star Mountain Horse Rescue’s profile on a popular photo sharing app. Her last post was from six months ago and it’s a photo of the Montana skyline, with no caption, and ten likes.
“I’m not really on social media,” she says. “I made an account for the barn but never did much with it.”
“I can see that,” I say.
“I need a social media manager,” she says wistfully. “And a six-month break.”
An idea starts to form in my head, and I think carefully about how to present it to the Viper.
“I know a lot about that stuff, actually,” I say. “I have a manager for the bigger brand deals, but I run all my accounts myself.”
