Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(36)

“I know. Ginny’s a bit eccentric, isn’t she?” Amber says, running a brush against the black horse’s mane as it drinks from the stream that runs through the corral, just behind the barn.

“If she had her way, I’d be named Felix, too.” Meredith wasn’t kidding about Ginny’s peculiarities. It isn’t enough that her cat and her dog are both named Felix. When I heard the barn doors rattle open this morning at precisely eight a.m., I rushed down to see how I could help. I found Ginny at the far end, standing in front of a stall, wearing rubber boots and a stern frown, a pitchfork in her hand. It took some convincing her that my limpy leg, as she called it, wouldn’t hinder my ability to “muck the stalls.” Then she had to teach me what “mucking the stalls” meant.

Nothing about these horses—the smell of their stable, the sound of the millet filling their trough, the sheer size of them as I stand next to them—feels second nature to me. I have to assume that I don’t have a lot of experience with these sorts of animals. I do know that I was exhausted after cleaning out just one stall. If all sixteen stables were filled . . .

It was while changing out the buckets for fresh water that I noted the horseshoe hanging above the stable door. And the name “Felix” etched into it. Stifling my laugh, because Ginny was busy in the black-and-white horse’s stall, I glanced over to see a matching “Felix” above that one, too.

Sure enough, both horses are named Felix.

“I can teach you how to ride if you want,” Amber offers, reaching over to slap the brown-and-white Felix’s side. “This one’s more tolerant of riders.” He answers by nuzzling against her neck, making her giggle.

“Was the barn ever full?”

“Yeah. It was really something to watch. The horses would run laps around the corral.” She waves her hand, tracing an imaginary path in the air. “Ginny’s father, Mr. Fitzgerald, loved horses. When I was eight, he convinced my parents to get me my own. He let me stable her here for free. I named her Pegasus.”

I nod, remembering seeing that name etched into one of the horseshoes above an empty stable. All of the stables still have names above them, except for one giant one on the end, which Ginny says is for foaling. There are five more Felixes—I know who named those—along with a myriad of others, some names cute like Licorice and others more stately, like Triumph and Retribution.

“What happened to her?”

“She died of colic when I was eighteen. I cried for a week straight. I’ll get another horse one day. When I’m back from traveling. If Ginny’s father had been alive when Pegasus died, he would have convinced me to get another one right away.” She sighs, switching brushes for a round one to begin rubbing the horse’s body in a circular motion. “I was so sad when that man died. He was like a third grandpa to me.”

I copy Amber with a second round brush, running it around Felix the Brown’s midsection. “What was he like?”

“Fat and jolly,” she says with a wistful air. “Ginny’s mom was nice too, but much quieter. I don’t think they knew what to do with Ginny. I used to be afraid of her, growing up. I didn’t understand why she is the way she is. I still don’t, really.”

We groom the horses in silence, until their coats shine and Amber has shown me how to clean their hooves.

Tossing the tools into the wooden box we carried out with us, I reach down to clean my hands in the stream, my fingertips going numb within seconds of being submerged in the cold water. Still, it’s refreshing. I don’t pull them out, watching the current as it flows freely over a bed of smooth stones.

“Water.”

I smile, catching on right away. “Tattoo.” I’m sure she could have guessed that that would be the first word to pop into my head. What neither of us knows—what no one knows—is why I have a tattoo of “water” on my pelvis. Was it an arbitrary choice? It certainly isn’t a common choice, like a bird or a butterfly. So there must be a reason for it. Something important enough to permanently mark myself with a symbol representing it.

That’s what I want to believe, anyway.

“This stream runs off the snow from the mountains. It’ll be bone dry by midsummer.”

I frown. “But it’s, what, six feet wide?”

“Summers get dry around here,” she laughs. “We also have a lake about a half mile back, that way.” Amber points into the wilderness. “You should take a walk out there one day.”

“I will.” My leg can certainly use the exercise. It’s bad enough that I have a giant scar running down the length of my face. I’d really like this limp to go away, and the only way that’s going to happen is by strengthening it.

“We’ll go camping by the lake when it’s warm enough. I haven’t done that in a couple of years, but I miss it. The stars are unreal.”

Have I ever gone camping?

Her eyes roll over the field to our left, covered in pale yellow flowers. “In another month or two, everything will turn brown.”

“It’ll still be beautiful, though.”

“Yeah.” She nods in agreement. “Sisters may be small but it’s a great town, with lots of nice people. Just wait until the summer. We have a big rodeo, and a quilt fair. Lots of tourists come through for the mountains . . . If you drive up there, you’ll see the wildflowers. There are literally hundreds of different kinds.”