The business degree had been a waste of money, no matter what my parents said. Turned out I hated accounting. Yeah, I was good with numbers, but working with them all day and night was too much to ask.
I needed to be outside. I needed to be interacting with other beings, human or animal. I needed hard work and adventure.
Now I had no idea what I wanted to do. Except for horses. I wanted to work with horses. Living on a ranch with a bunch of other cowboys wouldn’t be so bad either. Even if they didn’t share my orientation, the eye candy would be heavenly.
I’d been surprised when Adam told me the salary I’d be earning. The level was high for a stable hand. He’d also mentioned something about the special stock at the BCR so maybe they only housed Arabians or something. That would be a treat. I’d never seen a full-blood Arabian horse up close.
After following the serpentine curve of Rattler’s Revenge for about fifteen minutes, the brush thinned, and I emerged into a large clearing with the impressive outline of the ranch spread before me. The path took me to a set of steel black gates with BCR in big iron letters affixed to the bars.
A black intercom box perched on the stone wall to the left of the gates. I pulled in close, lowered my window, and pressed the button.
There was a crackle and then Connor’s voice. “Name please.”
“Jensen Moriarty. We spoke on the phone.”
“Awesome. I’ll buzz you in.”
An electrical humming noise sounded as the gates unlocked and slowly swung open.
“Welcome to the BCR, Jensen,” Connor said.
I drove forward and rolled up the window to keep the heat out.
An array of bright red and brown buildings crowded the far distance. In front of me stood an imposing clapboarded farmhouse with these words, painted in black, spanning the wall:
THE BRAIDED CROP RANCH STABLES
~ Pony shows every month ~
Pony shows every month, huh? Looked like I’d have my work cut out for me.
I parked in the small lot to the left of the front door and turned the car off. I wondered if driving all the way out here had been the right thing to do. At any rate, the job provided a new beginning and somewhere to spend the summer. If I enjoyed the work and found the people to be friendly and helpful, maybe I’d stay for a while.
There wasn’t much for me back home in Ottawa. Growing up in small-town Alberta, I’d become habituated to being outdoors among the trees, shrubs and farmlands, not surrounded by tall buildings and concrete. Except for the lack of mountains, heading up north into Muskoka country reminded me of home. If I couldn’t have mountains, I’d take forests and lakes any day.
I opened the door and stepped out, boots scuffing on gravel. As I stretched my aching legs and yawned, I wondered if the weather would be this hot all season. The muck and mud of spring had gone, but the dry heat and dust of high summer could be equally as troublesome, especially if I was expected to keep the horses and stables clean and tidy.
Grabbing my worn grey cowboy hat from the passenger seat, I placed it carefully on my head, dusted off my jeans and the blue button-down I’d ironed that morning, and walked purposefully to the large wrap-around porch. My boots thumped on the old wood as I climbed the three steps and grabbed the handle of the main door, opening it quickly, ignoring the butterflies in my belly. Starting over was always difficult. But I wasn’t scared. I was excited.
The image greeting me when I stepped inside stopped me in my tracks. I’d never seen a farm building this clean, and it unsettled me.
The wood floors were polished to a sheen; there was no dust I could see, or dirt stains from hands that had been to the stables and back; and the hallway in which I stood was airy and bright with modern fixtures. It threw me because usually places where people dealt with animals were less polished than offices you’d see in the city. But this place—well, I could have been back in downtown Ottawa instead of the middle of nowhere.
A sign with the word ADMINISTRATION was visible, with an arrow pointing down the hall to a large desk, fronting what appeared to be a line of offices.
A young guy about my age, whom I assumed to be Connor, looked up and blinked, eyes scanning me from head to foot while his face lost some of its color. I looked down at my shirt, in case I’d dripped some sauce on the front while I’d eaten my fast-food lunch on the go. But my shirt looked as clean as when I’d dressed that morning.
C’mon Jensen. Fake it till you make it.
“Hi. I’m Jensen Moriarty,” I said, removing my hat and striding forward as I extended my right hand.
Connor stood up, covering his uncertainty with a smile, and glanced over his shoulder as an older man came out of the office directly behind Connor’s desk and gazed at me with similar confusion.
I stood there awkwardly, my hand extended.
The older man glanced at Connor before recovering. He flashed me a warm smile as he shook my hand.
“Welcome to the BCR, Jensen. I’m Adam Marsland. It’s nice to meet you in person. Connor said there was a mix-up with the email?”
