The Bequest

These lessons are a mistake. Much like this entire summer plan. We have no business being on a ranch, much less working it. And this man does not have the patience to teach children. "No, Whitney. Stop." Steve's voice isn't irritated, but it is firm.

I trot my horse, a beautiful palomino gelding I'm borrowing from him, toward that side of the large, beautiful, covered arena. He does have a nice setup, I'll give him that much. But before I can say anything, I notice Whitney's face. She's not crying. She doesn't look sad or even angry.

She looks determined.

"You're not yanking this time," he says, "but your hands are holding him too tightly while you're asking him to go. That's why he keeps stopping-mixed signals."

Whitney nods.

"Can you try again?"

She nods again, this time keeping her hands down low, above the end of her chestnut's mane. He trots nice and slow, just as Steve said he would. "Great. Now, you're used to turning your horse like his head is a pulley. We're not that precise, and we're not that severe in Western."

"Okay."

"Are you two listening?" He turns toward Ethan and Izzy, who are working on doing big, loopy circles at a trot on the other side.

They both stop.

"You don't need to stop to listen," he says.

They start trotting again.

"I know it gets boring trotting all the time. We won't start cantering until next week, when I'm sure you can handle it while maintaining control. The only reason you even need to be able to canter on a cattle drive is to either catch up with an errant cow, or to control the horse if he spooks. We're going to focus this week on basic control with one hand. Who knows why using just one hand matters?" Izzy raises her free hand.

"Yeah, Izzy?"

"So you can use the other hand for something else, like roping a cow." She looks so proud of herself.

"That's right." Steve's smile is transformative. He goes from a stern, almost scary cowboy to the star of a Western. John Wayne would be jealous of that smile.

After a terrible start in which I lost my bridling privileges, and Izzy was forced to redo her saddle girth twice, we actually make decent progress. Ethan's struggling more than anyone near the end, which is good. Whitney manages to get her hands figured out and move her chestnut right along. Her circles are even fairly well done.

Most of my frustration is gone.

But my thighs are screaming. I wince as I swing down and out of the saddle.

"Sore?" Steve sees everything.

It's obnoxious.

I shrug. "I haven't done any riding in a long time."

"I'm convinced those muscles aren't used for anything else in the world," he says. "You miss a few weeks and you're back to square one."

Why's he suddenly being so nice?

"Should we give them any treats?" Whitney asks.

"I think the bucket may be empty." He points at the tack room. "But there's a fridge in there. Grab them each a carrot."

Whitney clearly can't find the carrots, so I duck inside to help her. I can't help noticing the pack of Guinness beer, right next to the bag of carrots. Ugh. Just right out in the open in the barn. He can't even keep it in the house, like a normal person.

Maybe he needs to have beer close by at all times. Geez.

After the horses have been dealt with, all of them given at least one carrot, and the tack is put away, the kids head for the minivan. "Thanks again," I say. "I think we made some good progress today."

"You'll be surprised how quickly they improve with lessons each day. Most kids forget half of what they learn in the six days in between with weekly lessons."

I'd never thought of that, but it might be true. "I hope so, because I can't help thinking this is all a huge mistake."

He leans against the wall of a stall. "If you think it's a mistake, why are you here?" He's not accusatory, but he doesn't exactly sound supportive.

"You didn't know what I was talking about yesterday. It seems like you're better informed today."

"I called Mr. Swift, and then I heard from Patrick Ellingson."

"He's one of the other three people who are supposed to decide whether we fulfill the will's requirements."

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"He is," Steve says. "And our families have been friends for a long time."

"Well, don't worry too much. I have to make a show of doing everything I can in order to fulfill the requirements, but we have no intention of staying past the end of summer." "Why come at all?"

I consider telling him it's none of his business, because it really isn't. But something about the earnest way he asks makes me want to confide in him. "It's Ethan." I drop my voice, but the kids are all in the car. It helps that 'hot' in Utah is apparently in the 70s. That's cool weather in Texas. "He hasn't taken his dad's death very well, and he decided not to apply to any colleges at all."

"He just graduated?"

I nod.

"But what does that have"

"He's a minor until September 2," I say. "Which means I can make the decision about the ranch. Starting this fall, though, he gets to make all his own decisions, and I want him in college."

"You made some kind of deal?" His eyebrows shoot up.

"That's exactly what I did." I cross my arms. I don't care if he disapproves. "I told him we would do our very best to fulfill the requirements while we're here, but by the end of the summer-the kids start school again on August 23-if he hasn't convinced me that staying here and working the ranch is the right move, he'll surrender peaceably and go to college."

"But you said he didn't apply," Steve reasonably points out. "He can't just show up."

"That's true," I admit. "But I don't give up easily. My friend's a provost at Rice University, and I sent Ethan's excellent test scores and GPA over to him. He's been put on the waitlist." "What if he doesn't get bumped up?" Steve asks. "What then?"

I'm sure the distaste is plain on my face. "Community college, I suppose."

"So there's no part of you that's really considering letting him work this ranch?” He purses his lips.

I shake my head.

"Patrick demanded that I make this offer, and I wish he hadn't, but here goes." He sighs. "He's willing to pay you, outside of the terms of the will, to walk away and let this go." "Why would he do that?" I'm instantly suspicious.

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"It's nothing nefarious. First, we both think it's pretty lousy that Jed left nothing to his own kin. But second, he doesn't want to wait until the end of the summer to buy the ranch. He'd rather buy it from the estate now, as is."

He doesn't say he'd prefer that we not screw things up, but his implication is clear as day. "I've promised my son that I would be here all summer to let him learn and try to convince me, and I know you don't know me, but I keep my promises. Always."

"I just told him I'd mention it," Steve says. "It saves his family money to wait, so once I explain it, I'm sure he'll be pleased to wait."

"We're not here to snatch money from a relative we didn't even know. We're not here to try and insert ourselves into your small town, either. We're just passing through, and once Ethan has seen that I care enough to do this for him, once he believes that I listen to him, he'll realize that he's the one being unreasonable, and we'll all go home."

"If you say so."

His know-it-all, nonchalant tone pisses me off. "I do say so."

"Alright." He smiles.

This time, it doesn't remind me of John Wayne. It makes me want to punch him. "You're so condescending." His eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"Do you have kids?"

His nostrils flare. His hands clench into balls at his side. His face flushes red. But he doesn't respond.

"I'll take that as a no."

His eyes narrow.

"Let me tell you this. People without children are often critical of parenting decisions. They frequently think that they know better." I lean forward. "But until you have a child, and unless that child is my child-"

"Whoa, until I have a child that's your child?"

I choke. That is what I said, but it's not-

"I think you're a nice lady," he says. "But it feels a little premature to start making plans to have children."

He is the most irritating man I have ever met. I inhale and exhale slowly. What about him makes me so angry? "It's been a long week, and I should not have been yelling at you. I'm immensely grateful you've been willing to help us." He should be prickly. He should be incensed. But he looks... happy.