“Candice,” I say. “We should get going. It’s getting late.”
“I know,” she says. “I know. I just—it just—it always feels like this when one of them goes. Like some part of me is being ripped away.”
Her words strike me square in the chest and suddenly, everything I know about her comes into clearer focus. When I first met her, I thought she was rude and dismissive because she wouldn’t give me the time of day. But I was wrong—completely and totally wrong about her.
She’s not rude at all. She’s just protective of her heart. And she has good reason to be.
The horses at the rescue are her family. And her family, with the exception of Beau, have all been taken from her. I bet that when one of the horses goes, she’s reminded of how she felt when her parents, and then grandparents, died. I want to pull her against my chest and tell her that it will all be okay. But even if she’d accept that kind of touch from me, it’d still be a lie.
Everyone goes eventually, horses quicker than people. But my heart still hurts for her, especially as I remember the way I felt when my dad finally left. We wanted him gone, but he still left a hole in our family. I can’t imagine the loss she’s gone through and I’m in awe that she’s still standing. That she still has this much to give to the creatures in her care.
Instead of saying anything, I lift my hand and place it on her shoulder, offering her silent comfort and hoping she accepts it from me. To my surprise, she doesn’t flinch and lets me keep touching her. I don’t push any further, though, and for a minute or two we just stand there in silence.
“I’m okay now,” Candice finally says. “I can keep it together.”
“I know you can,” I say. “You’re strong.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling at me a bit.
“Why don’t I take a photo of you and Jazz Apple?” I ask.
“For social media?” Her face is impassive now, like she’s had to bury everything in order to force herself to be okay with it.
“For whatever,” I say. “Though it would make a nice story.”
She nods, and then poses with Jazzy, who bobs her head up and down, making it tough to capture the moment. After, Candice takes one of me, which I plan on posting to my account later. Happy adoption stories are exactly the type of thing my manager would want me to be putting out there.
And it will be good PR for Star Mountain as well. I could even post it with a call to donate. I tuck that thought away for later, and follow Candice back to the truck, and the empty trailer.
“I’m glad you’re driving back,” she says, looking exhausted and small in the passenger seat.
“Me too,” I say. “You drive like a grandma.”
“I drive carefully,” she hisses at me, eyes flashing.
“Alright,” I say. I guess driving is a touchy subject for the Viper, but I don’t press the issue because Candice seems almost fragile right now.
I pull out of the driveway carefully and navigate us back onto the highway. Silence stretches between Candice and I, the warmth from the drive here gone and replaced by heavy, almost thick emotion.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For snapping at you a few minutes ago. I’m not in a good mood and I just…I just really hate driving.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I get it.” I’m desperate to ask her why, but I have a feeling she won’t tell me. Candice isn’t exactly an open book and I’m the last person she wants prying.
“We should stop for some gas and food,” she says, changing the subject.
“Sure thing,” I say. “I’m familiar with this area because we’re not far from my family’s ranch. There’s a gas station at the next exit, along with some fast-food chains.”
We drive there in relative silence, though Candice does turn the music back on and hums along to it. Around us, the Montana landscape stretches for miles in every direction. Snow-capped mountains loom in the distance, reaching towards the grey sky, and pine trees and scrub sprout along the highway. At the rest stop, we fill the tank, scarf down our food, and then get back on the road.
When the first flakes start to fall, Candice notices them before I do.
“It’s snowing,” she says.
But unlike when we were outside in the first snow together the other night, she doesn’t sound okay. She sounds anxious. Scared.
“It’s not heavy, though,” I say.
“Not yet.”
