There’s a lockbox on the door, and I use the code Gretchen included in this morning’s email to open it and retrieve the key. Normally Gretchen travels with me, but her dad is undergoing chemotherapy and we both agreed it was more important she be there with him for his treatment. Besides, with this being my last film for the foreseeable future, I’m more than ready to be on my own.
I unlock the red door and use my knee to push it open, then shove my biggest suitcase over the threshold, followed by my two medium-size suitcases. Shouldering two duffels and holding my purse, I step inside and use the same foot to close the door behind me.
Gretchen said this house has been available for rent for a year, but it doesn’t show. It has been freshly cleaned, judging by the aseptic scent in the air. I make a note to get a scented candle and drop the duffels so I can move freely through the house.
The first place I go is the kitchen. In the fridge I find everything I need to make a sandwich. There’s also my favorite brand of sparkling water, so I grab one and walk through the house, alternating between bites of my sandwich and sips of lime soda water. It’s fully furnished, but based on the outdated decor, my guess is that it came this way. Fine by me.
I keep waiting to miss my house. My bed. The skyline I’m so used to.
So far, it hasn’t happened. All I can really think about is how relieved I am to be away from it. Because for a while, my house was also Tate’s house. My bed was Tate’s bed. In Sierra Grande, Tate doesn’t even exist.
I finish my sandwich, find the master bedroom, and haul my stuff into the room. I text my parents to let them know I made it, ignore my mother’s response that I should’ve texted her hours ago because there’s zero chance I’m telling her about my car trouble, and send the same message to Morgan.
A light layer of dirt coats my skin, no doubt the result of hours of driving through dusty desert air. I take a long, hot shower and crawl into the bed. A large window faces out toward the river, the water visible in the light from the full moon. I’m going to regret it in the morning when the sun’s rising, but I leave the curtains open. The stars are plentiful, twinkling like someone blew fairy dust across the sky.
My last thought before I fall asleep is how a man like Warner, and a man like Tate, can exist under the same sky.
“Broken pelvis.”
I drop my spoon in my chia pudding. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Gretchen stretches out, reaching for something I can’t see. She straightens up and looks back at her phone screen. “Cary’s wife called and said he fell from a horse yesterday and won’t be available to teach you all the things.”
“But… but…” My spoon flips over, sending chia pudding into the air. It lands on the kitchen table in an unappetizing clump. I lift my hands to my face, smoothing out my eyebrows with the pads of my pointer fingers, then keep the fingers pressed to my temples. “Okay. What are our options?” What I really mean to say is, This cannot delay filming. Being late costs money. Each day has a monetary value attached to it.
“I’ve already put in a call to the mayor of Sierra Grande and asked him for help. The largest cattle ranch in Arizona is in that town, there must be cowboys crawling all over the place.”
I feel relieved enough to make a joke. “I don’t think cowboys crawl.”
Gretchen gathers her black hair over one shoulder. “Riding all over, then.”
“Is Cary in a hospital nearby? Maybe I could visit him?” I’ve never met the man, haven’t even spoken to him on the phone, but I feel like a visit would be a nice gesture.
“His wife said they’d had to drive two hours to the hospital, so I don’t know what that means. I’m not sure if he was at home when it happened, or if he was somewhere else, like on a trail ride or something.”
My eyebrows lift. “A trail ride?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m trying.”
“Well, let’s find out where he is and send him something. Flowers seem awkward. Maybe a cookie bouquet?”
Gretchen nods, writing on the notepad balanced on her knee. “Got it. What else? Is the house okay?”
I look around at the kitchen. In the light of day, I can see everything better. The wall below the upper cabinets is painted a buttery shade of yellow. While I’d never choose that color myself, it looks good in here. It complements the view from the kitchen window, which is of a tree line comprised of skinny-trunked trees. “All good,” I tell Gretchen, giving the screen a thumbs up. “Just call me when you hear from the mayor. I’m going to keep unpacking.” Last night I’d been so tired I only unpacked the necessities.
We hang up and I eat my breakfast and finish unpacking. I still haven’t heard back from Gretchen, so I wander outside and down to the river. It’s not huge, or fast moving, and the sound is just right. Peaceful. I sit down and close my eyes.
I don’t know how long I’m sitting that way, but it’s a while. My ears have become attuned to the sound of the water, so when there’s a rustling noise behind me, my heart leaps from my chest and I whip around.
It’s gray. Small. Skinny. Its rib bones push against its coat. The dog stares at me, wary but hopeful. That’s kind of how I feel about life right now. Wary but hopeful.
“Hello,” I say quietly, sinking to my knees, hoping the dog won’t see me as threatening. I hold out an open hand. It stares at me, and I feel it deep down in my chest. It’s deciding if I’m trustworthy.
It must think I’m okay, because it takes a cautious step closer. Then two more, until it’s only a foot away from me.
“I won’t hurt you,” I tell it. I can’t believe I’m talking to a dog. Does it even understand me? It looks like he might. Maybe it’s my tone of voice, not my words, that he comprehends.
It takes another step and I notice something I somehow missed. The dog has a limp.
“Are you hurt?” I stand up and it freezes. I look away, and start for the house, careful not to make eye contact with it even though I’m dying to look back. When I return, it’s in the exact same spot and I take a peek between its legs. Girl. I break off a piece of cheese and toss it beside her. She gobbles it and looks at me for more. This time I throw the food a few feet in front of us. She’s too hungry to be scared of me, or maybe she sees the food as a promise, because she comes forward and eats it. We do this over and over, until we’re standing beside Pearl’s open passenger door.
When I reach for her, my arms moving closer at an excruciatingly slow pace, she allows it. She’s too blissed out on cheese to mind. I scoop her up gently and place her in the passenger seat. I stand back and look at her, realizing I’ve made a mistake. What if she goes to the bathroom on my seat?
“Stay,” I instruct, though I have no idea if she knows commands. I sprint into the house and grab a bathroom towel, my heart banging against my chest by the time I get back to the car. She hasn’t moved. I slip the towel under her and get in the driver’s seat. I’m searching the internet for vets in Sierra Grande when I hear the sound of water that I know cannot be water because we’re not close enough to the river to hear it.
The dog is peeing.