Bright, Broken Things, page 3
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked Geai, and he nodded, leaving her to the tack.
She scanned her email, noticing more applicants. She needed to tackle this before it got overwhelming. Time was ticking away, school approaching much too quickly. After turning Claire back out and putting away the equipment, she drove her car to the smaller stable that housed the farm office.
It was easier to filter through the job responses on the computer than on her phone. Good experience, Liv. For her future at the farm. For her future as a veterinarian. Maybe for life in general. Of course, if she were better adjusted, she’d know more of the other exercise riders at Woodbine. She’d chat with them, coming and going from the track. She’d have friends, someone who would be interested in starting the yearlings this year.
Friends or no friends — it was most definitely closer to the latter for her — she should have asked around more. But recruiting wasn’t her strength either. It would have attracted unwanted attention. Instead, she’d sent a casting call out into the universe.
She stopped, the application she’d just opened catching her eye.
Perhaps the universe had sent a prospect back. She must be misunderstanding the cover letter, because it suggested this one was interested in both jobs. How great would it be to take care of what they needed in one fell swoop? The only problem was that the applicant was male, and probably her age, she deduced from his education. But the whole point of her hiring someone was because she wouldn’t be around to do it herself, so what did it matter?
5
He got up when he woke up — around daybreak — the fog clearing from his not-quite hungover brain. Wait — had he texted his ex last night? No. Thank goodness. He should really take her number out of his phone to safeguard against such stupidity.
But — a job, that was it. In his dreams, he’d found himself on some nightmare farm with broken fences and feral yearlings and thoughts like, what if I die here? Would anyone but his mother care? There had been no name on the posting, so he had no way of checking the place out. But the location was King City, which was a pretty posh area from what he understood. He flipped from his messages to his email, but there was no response. Of course it was too soon. He wasn’t impressive enough to leave a farm manager falling over themselves to speak to him. The nightmare farm was probably more what he deserved.
Will was still asleep. Nate didn’t know what time he’d come home; he’d slept soundly enough to miss it. After a shower, he started Will’s coffee maker instead of reaching for a beer. A token effort to get his act together. If they wanted to see him, he didn’t want to be drunk or hungover, though that probably wasn’t too unusual in this line of work. Who interviewed for someone to break horses, anyway? The straight farm job he could understand, but usually exercise riders from the track picked up this kind of work because they could gallop in the mornings and do the babies in the afternoon; make a little extra cash. Maybe the place was suspect. There had to be a reason no one wanted to start their horses. Nothing ventured, though. If the place turned out to be a freak show, he could say no. Assuming they’d even want him.
When Will surfaced, looking the way Nate had felt too many mornings of late — rumpled and absolutely hungover — Nate was leaning back in a chair, quietly plucking the strings of one of Will’s guitars. Will had a keyboard, but Nate hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t touched keys in any fashion since the new year had rolled in.
He stilled the strings and grinned at his friend. “Coffee’s on.”
Will raised an eyebrow, squinting with the effort of it, and frowned with suspicion, like he didn’t quite recognize the guy with the guitar; a vague memory from his teenage years when it was a normal sight. He shuffled to the kitchen and poured himself a cup before slumping to the couch.
“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” Will growled. “Sorry about last night. Not much of a friend, letting you leave your own birthday celebration while I partied.”
Nate shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Glad one of us enjoyed it. What time do you have to work today?”
“Eleven. Which is soon enough. Guess I don’t have to worry about you anymore?”
“Well... not sure about that, but don’t worry about me, just the same.”
Will’s laugh was a half-grunt. “I’ll leave you to that, then. I’d better get ready.”
After Will left, Nate kicked around the apartment. He should probably go out, take a walk, get some fresh air, if big-city smog even remotely resembled that, but this space was like a cocoon. So he stayed, picking at the guitar some more, then fingering through Will’s books, finding something to read. How long had it been since he’d just sat and read a book?
Of course, he checked his email incessantly. The doubts grew. The track was where he was meant to be. He should accept that; pursue it with conviction. But he wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted that dream without her.
It was late afternoon when he got the email through the job site.
Dear Mr Miller:
Thank you for your application. Are you free to come for an interview at 1pm tomorrow?
Sincerely,
Olivia
He almost laughed at the formality of it, but he didn’t hesitate to respond immediately, doubts gone.
Dear Olivia: (might as well keep up the formality. There was no job title, or he would have gone with that.)
Thanks for your response. I am.
Respectfully,
Nate Miller
Within minutes, he received the follow-up with the farm’s address. Triple Stripe Stables. The name made his heart skip a beat. While not a huge outfit, you couldn’t be a Canadian in the sport of horse racing and not know who they were. They had bred, campaigned, and now stood as a stallion named Just Lucky, a horse who had won the Canadian Triple Crown three years ago, the first since early in the millennium. A horse the entire country had adored and cheered for. That didn’t happen often with Canadian racing anymore. How great would it be to get in with such a place?
This interview was his shot to prove his worth, though he might have to do some play-acting to convince himself — let alone this Olivia — he could be any kind of asset.
There were no dreams of nightmare farms lingering when he woke the next morning. No dreams at all that he could recall. Maybe that was appropriate. He left Will’s apartment before his friend was up, too fidgety to stay in the apartment.
He was curious, and let the GPS direct him to Woodbine. The towering grandstand was visible from the 427 highway, on the opposite side from the Toronto airport, and he almost pulled over to take in the elevated view. The off-ramp fed directly into the turning lane that took him into acres of parking lot. There were still fields at the west end. That land had to be worth a chunk of change, but he’d read bits and pieces of the big plans they had for the property. Some kind of hotel/gaming/entertainment/residential complex.
Racing was surviving, more than thriving, in Ontario. It had taken a hit when the lucrative Slots At Racetracks Program had ended. Still, it was doing better than Alberta, despite recent attempts to revive things. Which is why he was supposed to be here.
You’ll outgrow this place, his boss, Al Wilson, had told him.
You owe it to yourself to go. I can’t hold you back, his ex had insisted.
Apparently, they both believed in him more than he believed in himself. Being here seemed like it was under duress. In the end, he’d left Calgary because he felt he had no choice. His future there had been dead in the water. He had to create a new one here.
The cars presently in the parking lot weren’t there to watch horse racing, because there wasn’t any this afternoon. They were there for the casino. Did their presence help or hurt the sport of kings? He followed the signs for the stable area, catching only glimpses of the actual racetrack surface.
He pulled onto the shoulder near the entrance, close enough to glimpse the security trailer and booth, the barrier that prevented anyone from driving straight into the stable area. No unauthorized access. He glanced at the crumpled scrap of paper Al had given him. A couple of names and numbers; people who might sign him in, sign his application, if not give him a job, as a favour to their old friend Al.
The prospect of being a freelance exercise rider in a place where no one knew him was intimidating. He wasn’t the person Al and Cindy thought he was. But he needed to work, and that’s what he was qualified to do. Not that he was any less qualified to be a hotwalker, cooling horses out after they trained. When it came down to it, a paycheque was a paycheque. Walking horses was just a much smaller one. It would let him keep a low profile, though. It might be just the thing if push came to shove. How long would it last, though? How long before someone figured him out? Play-acting intentions aside, he wasn’t sure he’d be convincing in the role of an inexperienced hack. With horses, true colours had a way of showing.
He watched for a while. Watched cars drive up to the security booth, cards scanned, barrier lifted to allow them through; watched a truck and trailer with stomping cargo roll to a stop, the driver showing credentials, speaking with the guard. Watched one get turned away and directed to the trailer. There was no sneaking into the Woodbine backstretch, though the guard didn’t check the horse van for stowaways.
The long, two-story red brick building to the left of the road into the stable area was a dormitory. Maybe he could get a room there, though at the height of the racing season, it was probably full. Gone were the days of living in tack rooms on the backstretch, but he would have been up for that. He’d lived in the near equivalent of one on Al’s farm from January until a few days ago. Popping the gear shift into first, he let the GPS lady lead him away. He’d put his aspirations on ice so long ago now, he was having trouble warming them up again. Too bad he’d failed to put his heart in the same place.
Minor roads took him north. Up Highway 27, which wasn’t really a highway compared to the 400-system roads. East on King Sideroad. He pulled over when he made it to King City and went into a small coffee shop.
It was plain. There was nothing on the drab walls and only a few small tables with chairs that didn’t exactly invite sit-down guests. Neither did the woman behind the counter. She was shorter than him, but terrifying, glowering under dark brows and matching tight-knit curls. Kind of an evil step-twin of his own blonde, sweet mother. He pressed his lips together so he didn’t laugh out loud.
“Are you Lucy?” he ventured. The sign on the shop had said Lucy’s Café.
“You must not be from around here,” she said, her tone abrupt. “What can I get you?”
Order and move on, chump.
He came away with coffee and a butter tart and sat in his car. One bite of the butter tart and he was in heaven. Under that gruff exterior, Lucy — if that frightful creature had been Lucy — was an angel. It would come in handy to have one in his court if he got the job. You could find them in the most unsuspecting places.
6
She was nervous. Sweating. Her palms, her armpits. She needed to find something to do, so she appeared occupied when the prospect arrived, but it would just be busywork. She tried opening a textbook but was too distracted to focus.
Face it head on, then. She scanned his application, reading over the cover letter and resumé she’d printed out. There were questions, of course, that came to mind. Why come east? He’d worked for a trainer in Calgary. On the farm. Galloping. And he’d completed a year and a half at the University of Calgary. Did he flunk out? Why apply for a farm job instead of going to the track? He’d make better money there. His cover letter was vague, not naming the exact position he was applying for. She wasn’t Human Resources for some corporation, but she liked it when people followed rules. He hadn’t.
With any luck, she could at least fill the position for the yearlings. Then all she’d have to do would be to decide who she should interview for the general farm job. Most of the applicants were female, young women just out of high school who thought they wanted to make a living in the horse business. Young women with dreams. Young women not unlike her and the staff currently employed on the farm. Ones who’d convinced their parents it was what they wanted to do, even though it meant a life living under the poverty line, or who defied the common sense doled out by their elders. At least she was trying to conform.
The sound of the barn door opening put her back on edge, and she straightened non-existent things on the desk, glanced over her shoulder at the big oil painting hanging behind her as if garnering moral support — Geai standing between her father’s two best horses, Just Lucky and Sotisse — and wished she hadn’t agreed to do this. It should be Geai sitting here.
It was Emilie’s voice she heard, chattering away easily. Emilie would be good at this job. Emilie liked talking to people.
Her sister pushed the door open. She looked slightly flushed, her eyes a touch brighter than usual, a grin on her face as she met Liv’s eyes, holding them for a second before speaking. “Hey Liv. Your guy’s here.”
Liv tried not to let her brows knot at her sister’s expression. Not my guy. “Thanks, Em,” she said, attempting to keep her voice light and professional, but it came out with a pointy bite.
“Nice to meet you,” Emilie said as she motioned someone toward the door. “Good luck.”
Good luck? Emilie’s amused tone only heightened Liv’s suspicion. She pasted on what she hoped was a pleasant smile, one that would convince a prospective employee luck would be unnecessary in the upcoming interview. When she raised her eyes, she was distracted a beat by Emilie, standing behind the man, giving a thumbs-up with one hand and pointing at his back with the other before she disappeared. Damn it, Emilie. As if she needed to be more flustered.
Then all that was left to look at was Nate Miller. Emilie had disrupted her composure, and settling her eyes on him did nothing to restore it.
Guys didn’t get to her. They didn’t make her breath shorten or her heart race. Only a horse could do that. She left those things to other girls. She’d skipped that stage — the teenage crushes, celebrity idols — because she knew famous people were just as human as everyone else.
She blamed the way her nerve endings came to life on the fact that she spent so little time around men her age. Her class at school was predominantly female and the only male she might consider attractive was a jerk who was not difficult to disdain. But oh, the farm’s all-female staff was going to go on and on about this guy in front of her. If she hired him, that was.
Blond. Even from across the room, she could tell his eyes were blue. Wary, though. Unsure. Probably because of the stupid look on her own face. She rubbed her damp palms on her jeans, tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear, and forced herself to her feet.
“Come in.” Her tongue tripped over the words.
He had to know he was attractive, but she tried to watch him as she would a yearling at the sales. He had a good walk. He was well put-together; a stayer, lithe and lean, not a bulky sprinter. She snapped her eyes back up from where they’d drifted.
You were checking him out, Liv. Admit it. Get over it. She reached across the desk, offering her hand; needing the boundary of the big old chunk of oak. His grip matched hers.
“Have a seat.” She swept an arm toward the old overstuffed chair set in front of the expansive block of wood.
As she watched him sit, it struck her how ludicrous it was that she was in this position. She’d never even had a job interview herself. The only time she’d ever had to convince someone she was worthy of consideration was when she’d applied to vet school, an experience she didn’t care to remember. Somehow her introvert self had muddled through the terrifying process, and she’d still been accepted, so she must not have messed up too much. Those connections some of her classmates goaded her about had probably helped.
Any of the “jobs” she’d had, she’d assumed. At her grandfather’s farm, cleaning stalls and tacking up her own pony was expected. He didn’t believe in babying. When her family had moved to this farm, she’d never expected special treatment for being the owner’s daughter. She pitched in when she could, weekends and after school. She didn’t identify her status; the help found out from someone else. As would Nate Miller, though, thanks to her sister, he might already know.
She was aware she’d been silent too long. He waited, a slight lift to one eyebrow, not smiling, but not looking unpleasant, either. It was her responsibility to lead this thing. She needed to step up. She lifted his resumé from the desk and ran her eyes over it, giving herself another moment to compose herself. Had she even introduced herself? Did she need to? Probably a good idea.
“Thanks for coming. I’m Liv.” No need to volunteer more than that. She didn’t have an official title, after all.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. His hands rested on his thighs, though they weren’t still. Maybe he was nervous too? “Thanks for seeing me.”
His expression remained guarded. She kind of liked that, too. Too often guys could be smarmy, especially the good-looking ones. He wasn’t looking at her like he thought she was too young, either. He seemed respectful. One point in the win column, then.
She was far too accustomed to others making assumptions about her age to do so with someone else, but she’d already made a good guess because of when he’d attended high school. Still, there was something careworn about his features that made him seem older than that number — which was close to her own.
