Desolate

Chapter 3

Chapter 3The mid-morning lesson was going fine until Nevaeh unceremoniously hit the ground. Seconds later her eyes glistened with tears. Westley, who’d taken his usual spot in the middle of the arena, crossed the short distance to check on his student. The six-year-old remained sitting in the sand and he worried she may have seriously hurt herself. Outside the arena her mother clutched the top rail, brow knit.

“Are you okay?” Westley asked as he got down on one knee, placing a gentle hand on Nevaeh’s back.

There were wet streaks down her brown cheeks. She sniffled, answering him with a little shake of her head.

He proceeded to check her over, looking for any obvious cuts or breaks, trying to recall if she hit her head. Helmet or not, concussions were still possible. The fall hadn’t seemed like much, he’d witnessed considerably worse and even been victim to a few nasty spills himself, like the time a turkey surprised him and his horse on a trail ride.

And it was in that moment Westley realized he didn’t know what caused the fall.

Surely he’d been watching her, instructing her to sit up straight, to breathe, and go with the flow of the pony as they trotted a wide circle around him. They’d done it before in previous lessons as he coaxed the timid Neveah to explore the boundaries of her comfort zone. Last week she walked away with a big smile plastered on her face, recounting everything she did to her mom as they walked into the barn, despite mom having seen the whole lesson. It was the kind of moment he lived for when it came to being an instructor.

So why did he draw a blank on the cause of all this?

Smudge, the pony she’d been riding for nearly half a year, stood calmly a few feet away. When it came to pairing riders with horses, Westley took his time, getting a feel for his student in order to make the best fit. Smudge was a bombproof schoolmaster. Nothing phased him and generally he looked after his kids. There was no better mount for Nevaeh.

He’d have to answer the bothersome question later.

“Everything appears to be in one piece. Does anything hurt?”

“My knee.” Nevaeh pointed at the sandy stain on the right knee of her white breeches.

“Is the pain bad enough you can’t stand?”

Nevaeh shook her head.

Westley stood, offering her his hand. “Let’s get up, test it out. Now do you remember the saying I taught you?”

She sniffled again, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “The one on the wall in the lounge?”

“That’s the one.”

“‘If you fall, get right back on’.” She scrunched up her face as she recalled the plaque near his office door.

“Do you think you’re ready to get back on?”

Nevaeh stood there, a tiny little thing, with her curly black hair in pig tails sticking out from under her helmet. The indecision was clear in her eyes and Westley took advantage of it. He went to Smudge, taking hold of the pony’s reins and led him the few steps back to Nevaeh.

“I’m sure if you ask Smudge he’ll apologize. He never meant to hurt you. Will you give him another chance?”

Nevaeh shrugged.

“How about if I promise to stay by your side and we just do one circle around the arena at a walk?”

“Okay.” Her quick response gave him hope.

The trio traipsed over to the mounting block in the corner and after Westley did a quick check of the girth—had an insecure saddle sent her tumbling?—Nevaeh climbed aboard. True to his word, Westley stayed at her side.

“Remember to relax and breathe. In and out. Relax your hold on the reins. There you go. Okay, keep breathing. You’ve got this.” When they made it back to their starting point, Nevaeh’s tears had dried. “How do you feel? Are you coming back to see Smudge next week?”

“Yeah.”

“High five.” They slapped palms.

As soon as Nevaeh’s feet hit the ground she threw her arms around Smudge. “I love you, Smudgy.”

At the gate, Mrs. Ramsey mouthed thank you to him a moment before her daughter started in on her rundown of the lesson. Holding her daughter’s hand, they headed for the barn where Westley spied not only one of his helpers waiting inside, but also his Doberman, the dog chilling in the shade.

The stablehand trailed after Nevaeh and her mom. Though he was adamant each of his students learn the full fundamentals of riding, from fetching their horse in the pasture to proper grooming and tacking up, then doing it all in reverse, when it came to the younger kids, he liked to have a helping hand nearby.

Alone, Westley glanced around, trying to make sense of the incident. The only other riders present at the hour went on a group trail ride. Horses and ponies munched contentedly on grass in a number of pastures, none of them displaying any signs of distress. At this point his best guess lay on a bird or maybe a rabbit startling Smudge. After all, Ghost Ridge and its pastures were surrounded by plenty of trees, the edges of his property butting up to a state park.

Maybe if he closed his eyes and replayed the scenario in his mind, he’d remember any missing details that may have slipped his memory, blocked by his instant concern for Nevaeh. He tried. But instead of seeing Nevaeh on Smudge practicing the act of posting, rising slightly in the saddle in rhythm with Smudge’s trot, he saw himself back in the asylum at the edge of the hole.

Westley felt like he was right back there, his senses inundated with the mold and dampness, staring into the void. This time, however, when he felt the strong hands on his back, they brought with them a burst of cold that permeated the very core of his heart, stopping it mid-beat. There was no saving himself as he went over, freefalling, the jagged bits of rubble below getting closer with every passing second.

He opened his mouth to scream…

“Westley, hey, man, you okay?”

The voice snapped Westley back to the present, shattering the image of the asylum, right before he’d have become one with broken boards and tiles. Brilliant mid-morning sunlight hurt his eyes, forcing him to blink quickly a few times. He was down in the sand on his hands and knees, fingers curled into the gritty ground, the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. Danvers, his red Doberman, stood before him, head slightly c****d. The dog whimpered.

Strong and fine, his heart tapped against his ribs. How had he gotten here? He reached out tentatively for Danvers, feeling the dog’s soft fur under his fingers and allowing it to further ground him in the present.

“West?”

Standing a few feet from his side was Shia Lancing, the nineteen-year-old he’d employed three years back as a stablehand, holding a bale by the twine. His jeans and T-shirt were spotted with dust, pine shavings, and clippings of hay, having spent the morning doing chores while Westley saw to his students. The teen was invaluable.

And the look of concern on his face said volumes.

“I, uh.” What did he say, did he lie, make up a plausible excuse, or did he fess up and admit…What, exactly? “I just, I don’t know.” He got to his feet, dusting off his hands, trying to play it off with a shrug and an awkward smile. “Guess I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning, huh?”

Shia appeared to be weighing his words. “Oh, well, I brought in donuts. I left a strawberry frosted one wrapped in a napkin on your desk. I know how you like ‘em.”

“Thanks. Sounds just like the thing I need.” An air of disquiet settled on him. He’d felt off ever since he’d followed Nicolaj over the threshold into the asylum.

“How are preparations going for the show? Getting nervous yet?”

“There’s always a touch of nerves,” Westley replied, thankful for the change in topic. He shoved the questions and what was it, a subtle buzz of fear, aside. “Especially with trying to qualify for the equestrian team.”

Shia snorted. “You guys are gonna kill it. The other riders wish they had your talent and with Hawthorne there’s no way you won’t add a gold medal to your trophy wall.” He beamed. “I can’t wait to tell everyone my friend’s a gold medalist.”

“Thanks for the support, but don’t go getting ahead of yourself. I’ve seen the names of my fellow competitors, there’s some stiff competition.”

“Eh. I’ve seen you two. You’re a shoe-in.”

Westley chuckled, it sounded forced to his ear, and with any luck proved passable to Shia. “Okay, okay. I’ll make sure to thank you for your undying support, but until then, get back to work.”

“Speaking of, have you done the orders yet?”

Danvers pressed against Westley’s side. He rested his hand on the dog’s head. “No, why, what’s running low?”

“Miss McGaw wants to know if she can get two bags of Equi-Shine this time around instead of one.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem. I’ll add an extra. In fact, maybe I’ll just get three or four more in case anyone else wants some.”

“Cool. I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks, Shia.”

The teen returned to his chores, leaving Westley alone with his thoughts. But the last thing he wanted to do was dwell on the morning and the unsettled feeling clinging to him like a bad funk. Though paperwork awaited him in the stable’s office, Westley decided to take Shia’s unspoken suggestion and go in search of his horse for a little training time in the saddle.