High Country Cowgirl. Joanna Sims
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got eyes on him the whole trip,” Gabe said. “We’ll be stopping in Columbus, Ohio, for the night...give his legs a rest.”
Bonita watched the horse on the screen, still in awe that he was actually hers, as they slowly made their way to the gate. As the gate swung open, she looked at the equestrian complex she had called home in the side view mirror, feeling nostalgic for another time, when her mom was healthy and she was under the illusion that nothing in her life could go wrong. That’s how it had been while she was riding here. It had been an idyllic life and it was over. Now she knew that plenty could go wrong. In fact, her whole world could shatter with one diagnosis.
“I hope you like music.” Gabe switched on the radio.
She did like music. All kinds. Reggae, classic rock, salsa, jazz—she liked virtually all genres of music. The one kind of music she couldn’t stand? Country. What did Gabe play for the entire seven hours it took to get to their first stop? Country.
Bonita tried several different strategies to cope with the onslaught of her most hated genre of music: listening to her own music with her earbuds, striking up a conversation with the cowboy, counting telephone poles, scrolling through her social media, texting friends and mindful meditation. She even contemplated braving a bout of motion sickness by escaping to the back, but the thought of losing her lunch in Gabe’s super expensive Equine Motorcoach made her think better of it. Instead, she sat in stoic silence, internally cursing all country singers and over-petting poor Tater’s head. The only reprieve she got was when they had to stop for fuel and a bathroom break for the Chihuahua.
“Do you need anything?” she asked before heading into the convenience store.
“No. I’m good. Once I’m done filling up, I’m gonna check on Val before we take off again.”
Bonita dawdled in the convenience store. She knew Gabe was probably ready to roll and she just couldn’t quite bring herself to hurry. She had physically shaken her head in the bathroom in an unsuccessful attempt to get Blake Shelton out of it. By the time she left the store with her soda, something she promised she wouldn’t drink on the trip, and a candy bar, something she promised herself she wouldn’t eat on the trip, Gabe had the rig parked near the exit. He was definitely waiting on her.
“How is he?” she asked as she climbed into the rig, juggling her drink and candy bar.
“Good.”
He was annoyed.
“Buckle up.” He already had the engine cranked. “We’re on a schedule.”
She took Tater from him, settled the dog on her lap and then she did buckle up, but she did it rather slowly. He might be annoyed with her, but she was the one who had to marinate in Johnny Cash for heaven only knew how much longer.
“How much longer do we have?” she asked over the music.
“Just shy of an hour.”
¡Ay Dios mio! ¡Por favor, no mas musica!
She prayed to God to make the music stop. Her prayers were not answered and ol’ Johnny kept on singin’. She had thought several times to ask him to turn the music off for a bit, yet she was acutely aware of the fact that she was the one crashing this party. She hadn’t trusted him with nearly a million dollars of her father’s money—that was the truth. But crashing the party and making demands was even a step too far for her.
“I’ve never been to Ohio,” she said, more to herself than to Gabe. For miles and miles, the terrain had been flat, and cows occupied the fields more often than not. Ohio seemed to be as rural and lonely in places as Montana, minus the mountains. Even though she didn’t like the fact that rush hour traffic was slowing them down in Columbus, she was glad to see civilization. She liked to see people—she liked the energy of a big city.
“What’s that?” Gabe switched off the radio.
Gracias a Dios. Bonita silently thanked God.
“I’ve never been here.” She gestured out the windshield. “Ohio.”
Gabe nodded wordlessly.
“Where are we stopping for the night?”
“My friend’s got a spread not too far from here. Plenty of room for Val to let loose some energy. Doc’s ready for him—got a stall set up for tonight.”
She assumed that Doc was the friend; she didn’t ask because she was tired and feeling irritable. She’d find out soon enough one way or the other.
“I don’t know how you do this all the time,” Bonita muttered and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The drive was tedious, just one endless mile after another. “Don’t you get tired of it?”
“Sometimes,” Gabe said. “But this is part of how I make a living, so I get over it quick enough.”
He thankfully took the next exit and then they went deep into the back roads on the far outskirts of Columbus. There were more miles with more cows and more dilapidated barns in more flat fields, and then Bonita spotted the sign announcing that they had finally arrived at their destination: Hobby Horse Farm.
It was a lovely farm. The crown jewel was a whitewashed Victorian farmhouse with a wraparound porch, carved gables and two stately brick chimneys. There were miles of green pastureland, white fences and grazing horses dotting the landscape. She hugged Tater to her body a little too hard in her excitement, and the dog gave a grunt of discomfort.
“Oh! I’m sorry, little one.” She kissed the dog on the head. “I’m just so happy that we’re finally here!”
* * *
“Gabe Brand, as I live and breathe!”
Doc turned out to be a wiry woman, possibly in her late forties. She had a wild mass of copper curls and deep smile lines around her eyes and mouth. She was dressed in riding boots and breeches and she was waving her arms in the air in enthusiastic greeting. A small pack of dogs—old, young, small and large—surrounded Gabe’s friend, barking and tails wagging. Not to be outdone, Tater began to alternate between growls and woofs.
Gabe stuck his hand out the window and waved. “Where do you want her?”
“Pull straight on in.” The woman pointed to the large gravel area ahead. “It’ll hold you.”
He parked and hopped out of the rig. Bonita was glad to follow. Carrying Tater, she rounded the front of the rig and caught the greeting between friends. The woman, who seemed to jerk from one position to the next in big leaps and movements, tossed her arms over Gabe’s shoulders and kissed him right on the lips. It wasn’t a lingering kiss, but Bonita sure didn’t recall greeting any of her friends—male or female—with a kiss on the lips.
“Goodness gracious, I’m glad to see you.” Doc exclaimed, her hands now on her boyish hips. “It’s been too long.”
Like a bee in search of nectar, their hostess flitted toward her, a wide, welcoming smile on her face. The woman invaded her personal space and stuck out her hand. “Janice Joplin. Same sound, different spelling. I know, can you believe it? I married into the name. I thought about changing it after the divorce, but by then I’d been Doc Joplin for years, so why bother. I can’t sing, I’ve never had a drug problem, I’m not kin. So there you go.”
It took Bonita a split second to realize that Janice had finished, come up for air and was waiting on her now.
“Bonny.” She told Janice her nickname, sometimes a little shy about her own given name, while Janice’s pack of dogs wove around her legs, smacking her legs with their wagging tails. Tater was snarling at the circling, friendly pack of canines, showing her teeth and growling low in her throat.
“She’s the owner,” Gabe told Janice, and Bonita got the impression that he wanted to quickly clear up any confusion regarding her status.
“Perfect. Nice to meet you,” Janice said before she lurched away, her attention now on