Page 60 of Touch the Sky

I cringe. This probably wasn’t the time for a smartass remark.

Jacinthe glares into the fire, and I wonder if I’ve totally blown whatever this moment was.

Then she tips her head back and laughs.

“No,” she agrees. “It isn’t. You got me there. Maybe I have a bit to say.”

She doesn’t seem to be shutting the conversation down, so I risk letting curiosity win.

“Do you mind me asking…how old were you when he left?”

She grimaces for a moment, but then she launches into an explanation.

“Depends if you mean the first time or not. He started leaving for a few days at a time when I was maybe ten? Then sometimes it was weeks. Then it was months. Then he left forever when I was thirteen.”

I try to imagine one of my parents walking out the door forever, and I just can’t. Not now, and definitely not when I was barely a teenager.

I open and close my mouth a few times, but the feeling rising in my chest is too big for words.

“You know,” Jacinthe says, staring into the fire again, “he was the one who convinced my mom they should open La Grange Rouge. Then he left us with it. All those empty stalls? They used to be full of horses. We couldn’t manage them all when he left.”

She shakes her head, like she’s chasing off a memory.

“Mamanwas…she was not okay for a while, you know, like, mentally, when he left, and I still had to go to school and stuff, so it’s not like I could do it. We had to sell them. So many horses. Horses I knew my whole life.”

My gut twists at the thought of that kind of loss. People who haven’t spent time around horses wouldn’t get it, but I do: the way every horse in your life stamps a mark on you. There’s something about a bond with a horse that feels like a rare gift, like you’ve been singled out and chosen for something you might not have even recognized in yourself.

“That’s awful,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”

Jacinthe lifts her head up with a jolt, like she forgot I was even here.

Then she plasters on an impassive expression and shrugs.

“Things got easier, especially after I dropped out of Cégep to run the farm. Now I make sure I can always do it myself.”

Shel’s school has already explained Cégep to me: the post-secondary program most students in Québec need to take if they want to go on to university or pursue certain jobs.

I had no idea Jacinthe dropped out.

“Did you…” I trail off and try to find the best way to phrase things. “I mean, is that what you always wanted to do? Run the farm?”

She nods without a second of hesitation.

“Yes. It’s my home. I love it.”

I recognize the steely force in her tone. It’s the defense mechanism of someone who’s used to having to justify themselves.

“I get that,” I say. “I probably would have gotten my master’s if I didn’t have Shel, but I wouldn’t change anything. It feels weird to even think about it.”

Jacinthe flicks her gaze up from the flames to meet my eyes, and it’s almost like I can feel her relax, like there’s a shift in the air between us as the growing heat of the fire draws us into a space that’s just for us.

“It would have been nice to finish Cégep, I guess,” she says, settling back farther on the stump. “Before Balsam Inn, I would take odd jobs in the off-season. I probably could have gotten better ones if I’d finished my program, but it doesn’t matter now. This is what I want. This is good. I’m happy.”

There’s no lie in her voice, but there’s also no way for her to hide the weariness. Even in the fireside glow, there are still purple circles under her eyes, and I can’t help wondering if maybe wanting the farm doesn’t have to mean wanting it like this.

It’s not my place to say that, though. Not to a woman I’ve only known for a few weeks.

“Did you always want to be a farrier?”