Page 37 of Montana Memory
She grinned. “Assistant Mucker of Stalls. Handler of All Things Furry. Expert Dog Cuddler.”
“That last one I’d probably be good at,” I admitted. “The rest? Jury’s still out.”
Lark shot me a look but didn’t press, and I was grateful. Not that I’d gone into town much, but most people here in Garnet Bend didn’t know how to handle the wholeI have no idea who I amthing. Some pitied me. Some got weirdly fascinated, like I was some kind of walking true crime documentary.
But Lark? She’d just accepted it. Said everyone had things they had to live with and if there was anything she could do to help, just let her know.
“You do good work,” she said after a moment, tossing another rake of hay into the stall. “Not everyone can handle this kind of job.”
“It’s not hard.”
“Not physically, no,” she agreed. “But it takes a certain kind of person to enjoy it. Not everyone likes getting their hands dirty.”
I did. Or at least, I did now. Maybe I hadn’t before. But now, I almostneededit. The physicality, the structure, the way animals never asked for more than I could give. They didn’t wonder if I was different than I used to be, didn’t try to analyze the gaps in my memory.
Lark moved to the next stall, tossing in fresh hay with practiced ease. I followed, grabbing the water bucket and refilling it from the pump at the back of the barn. The repetitive work kept my hands busy, my mind clear—something I’d started to count on in my week of living in Montana.
“So,” Lark said after a moment, glancing at me. “What have you been up to over at Resting Warrior?”
I shrugged, setting the water bucket down and wiping my hands on my jeans. “Not much. Met a few of the women there—Lena, Evelyn. They’re nice.”
Lark cocked her head, catching something in my tone. “But?”
I sighed. “But…I don’t know. I feel like a science experiment around them sometimes.”
Her brow furrowed. “How so?”
I leaned against the stall door, tracing a knot in the wood with my fingertip. “They don’t mean anything by it. They’re just…curious, I guess. About my memory. About how much I remember or if I’ve had any breakthroughs.” I let out a dry laugh. “Like maybe if they stare at me long enough, something will just…click. But they don’t really talk to me. Don’t seem to want to be friends. I get it, though. They’re close to Kenzie and probably see it as a betrayal to her.”
Lark didn’t say anything right away, just kept working. And that was one of the things I liked about her. She didn’t rush to fill the silence, didn’t try to smooth things over with empty reassurances.
“That’s gotta be frustrating,” she said after a beat.
I exhaled. “A little.”
Lark nodded like she got it. Maybe she did.
I shifted, trying to shake off the heaviness settling in my chest. “I do like Mara, though.”
Lark’s lips twitched. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Yeah?” I arched a brow.
She tossed another flake of hay into the stall. “Mara doesn’t talk much. And from what I’ve seen, you’re not a big fan of being interrogated.”
I huffed a laugh. “True.”
Mara had been a selective mute for most of her adult life and, even now, didn’t talk much. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t probe or press. Like the animals, and I meant that in the best way, she justwas—quiet, steady, existing in her own space. And when I was around her, I didn’t feel like someone waiting to be figured out. I was just…me.
I rubbed my palms over my jeans, shifting my weight. “I think the memory thing makes people see me as fragile.”
Lark turned to face me fully, resting her arms on the pitchfork handle. “Are you?”
The question caught me off guard.
I wanted to say no. That I wasn’t fragile, that I was stronger than whatever had happened to me before. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t know who I’d been before. I only knew that whoever I was nowhatedthe feeling of being treated like something breakable.
