Page 50 of Resisting Isaac

isaac

“You turn her loose,” Wyatt’s voice booms when I enter the barn.

My brain short circuits. There’s no way he could possibly know about Elena and me?—

“The mustang,” he continues. “As soon as that leg is healed, you have to let her go.”

“Right, yeah. That’s the plan,” I tell him.

He stares at me intently for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m serious, Isaac. I know how you get. You can’t keep her.”

“How I get,” I repeat. “How do I get?”

“Attached.” He leans against the workbench with folded arms. “Like with Lucky.”

Fucking Lucky. I loved that damn horse.

“I was a kid, Wy. Jesus.”

He huffs out a heavy breath before he leaves. Apparently trying to impregnate his wife is not making him any more fun to be around.

Once he’s gone, Lucky prances across my mind once more.

I was twelve the first time I realized loving something didn’t mean you got to keep it.

He wasn’t even supposed to be ours. He was a barrel-racing reject—a too-hot, too-fast gelding with bad knees and fire in his eyes. He came from some busted-up stable outside Wild Canyon and Dad brought him home after hearing the owner talk about shipping him off for slaughter.

He looked at me that morning, and said,“He’s yours if you want him. But he’s not gonna be easy.”

That horse was nothing but sharp edges and bottled lightning. He kicked at the stall walls. Bit Wyatt more than once. Spooked at everything from his own shadow to a falling leaf.

And I loved him on sight.

Maybe because I understood him. Or maybe because I wanted something that would love me back if I could just figure out how to handle it right.

I spent every afternoon with him that summer. I’d bring apples from the kitchen and stand at the fence for hours just talking to him. He’d pace, ears twitching, tail flicking, and I’d tell him about school, football tryouts, the time I got caught kissing some girl behind the field house. He’d huff and stomp like he was judging me.

But slowly, he let me close.

By August, I could ride him bareback out to the edge of the property. Just me and him and the sound of hooves on dirt and the sky stretched wide like it belonged to us.

I swear, for a while, that horse saved me.

But living things don’t stay still. Not on ranches. Not in real life.

By spring, Lucky’s front left leg started swelling. He limped after long rides. Vet said it was tendon damage. Dad and Wyatt both said we should rest him.

I didn’t listen.

I wanted one more run. One more race against the wind. One more moment where it was just him and me, nothing hurting, nothing broken.

We made it a mile before he buckled.

The vet said the ligament was too far gone. That he’d never walk right again. That pain would follow him for the rest of his life and keeping him alive would’ve been selfish because it was forme, not for him.

I sat with him in the field the morning they came. Pressed my forehead to his neck. Told him I was sorry.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch.