I slowly walk down the stairs, making sure not to trip and fall, my sock-covered feet barely making a sound.
I hear strangers’ voices drifting toward me from the kitchen. The woman’s I assume is Elizabeth—Lizzie—my father’s new wife, but there’s a man with her who isn’t my father. I’m about to announce myself, not wanting to eavesdrop, when I hear my name and stop in my tracks.
“Have you met Montana yet?” the guy asks.
“No, she went upstairs as soon as she arrived. Wayne said she was in pain and exhausted,” Lizzie answers, seemingly not too bothered I didn’t formally meet her last night. Unlike the man, it would seem.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” His voice sounds angry. “She calls Wayne out of the blue after fourteen fucking years, asking for help, when she never bothered to answer—”
“Kade—” Lizzie tries to interrupt to no avail. The name rings a bell, and I remember my father telling me his vet is coming out today. This must be him.
“No, she’s a selfish brat, always has been, just like her mother.” Being compared to my mother is probably the one thing that could actually hurt me. Especially after I spent the last seven years turning my life around. No one really knows what living with my mother was… is… like, and even though they shouldn’t, these words from a stranger bring tears to my eyes. I’ve been called many things over the years, but those words never managed to hurt me the way being compared to my mother does.
“The least she could have done is introduce herself and thank you for helping her out when she clearly has no one else. You know the other athletes talk about her, and it’s not very flattering,” the man called Kade continues.
“Those are rumors told to you by that college friend of yours. We don’t know if they’re true,” Lizzie counters.
“Are you seriously telling me everyone on the circuit is lying, or the tabloids? Pretty sure they didn’t make up her driving drunk when she was only seventeen and nearly killing someone. Or the temper tantrums she throws whenever something doesn’t go her way during a competition, accusing others of cheating whenever she doesn’t win.” His scoff of derision is clearly detectable, and it’s like a bullet straight to my heart knowing my father probably thinks the same.
Is that what these people believe? I’m an entitled brat with no regard for anyone else? When a sole tear runs down my face, I dash it away, reminding myself they don’t know any better, no one does but Bob and Dakota. And they obviously don’t care to know the truth. I guess it’s why my father never reached out. He believes the lies everyone else tells about me. Whenever I try to explain to people it wasn’t me driving that night or me yelling in the stables, they dismiss me as a liar. I guess it’s my own fault. I’ve taken the blame for my mother’s actions since I can remember and never knew any better until that fateful night when I was seventeen.
“Kade—” Lizzie starts.
“Just be careful is all I’m saying. I don’t trust her, and neither should you or Wayne. Who knows what she’s up to? She’s—”
“Enough,” Lizzie cuts Kade off, her voice is firm, brooking no argument. “Regardless of what you heard, she’s Wayne’s daughter and always welcome in this house. You don’t turn your back on family, no matter how bad they are.”
I flinch at that last part. I guess I’ll always be the bad seed. At least now I know. Having heard enough, I don’t care to be quiet as I walk toward the front door, slip into the boots I took off last night, and walk outside, not bothering to close the door quietly or grab anything more than my sweatshirt. I walk down the lane with its slight covering of snow, angry at myself for hoping these people were anything other than what they showed me over the last fourteen years.
And they have the nerve to call me a brat. I scoff out loud at the thought before I angrily pull on my sweatshirt covering my chilled skin, the stabbing pain in my shoulder barely registering. That’s when I notice I’m still holding on to the sling I’m supposed to wear.
I make it to the stable without further incident and open the small side door to walk through. The smell of horse and hay hits my nose and immediately calms me. Being surrounded by horses is the only time I ever feel like I’m home.
The inside is filled with light, giving it an open feel. Wayne always took care of his horses. It’s one of the reasons why he’s one of the most sought-after quarter horse breeders in North America. His horses are continuously winning in reining, cutting, or team roping competitions. Whisky is the only one of his horses I know is enjoying and excelling in show jumping.
I smile while I move toward his stall, remembering how he used to jump every obstacle he could as a colt. No one expected him to do well, not when competing with the taller breeds from Europe, but he did better than anyone thought possible.
Just as he always does, Whisky’s head appears through the opening in the stall door. After what I overheard in the house, I’m happy to see someone I know likes me, and I smile. It’s probably pathetic that one of the only real friends I have is a horse, but, unlike humans, Whisky doesn’t lie to me. He’ll tell me straight up if he’s angry at me instead of discussing my business behind my back, doing whatever this Kade guy was doing.
“Hi, handsome.” I
