Rob came up beside Sally. She ruined the perfectly good smell of horse
sweat and leather with some citrus crap they call perfume. This goofy girl called
this swayback, quarter horse—a steed—and, probably, thought the tobacco-
chewing ranch hand was her "knight in shining armor."
He spit a glob of brown on the back of the box stall’s gate. Her "steed" would
lick it off later, he mused. As far as he was concerned, these Starbucks-latte-
slurping-plastic-augmented California girls were the worst.
Rob was a tad older. Even if he had a smidgeon of interest, common decency
would not allow him to have a wholesome liking of her. "Heck," he thought, "her
daddy might be one of those prosecuting attorney's California grows like grapes,
in bunches, hanging off the vines of society sucking blood from innocent, almost,
law abiding folks." He preferred the worldly offspring of truck drivers and
construction bosses. This Sally was as silly as a twenty-dollar haircut.
"Here," Rob dismantled her curled fingers from the saddle horn, “here, here,
take the reins.”
“But, it might want to go.” She grabbed the horn again.
“Look, I know the ground hurt ya, but you got four more days here and the
folks back home will want to see some nice six megapixels shots of their princess
riding and having fun. Here, give me the camera, sweetheart. It gots to cost more
than I earn in a month. Broken bones is one thing, broken cameras is another.”
“What!” She started to fling her leg off the horse; the camera swung like a tire
swing and hit Rob on the forehead making his eyes go cross eyed. “Oh, I’m
sorry.”
Sorry, hell, that ain’t the half of it. It was plain pitiful to raise a daughter like
this. He had to find out if Irvine was in Orange County, the new Sodom and
Gomorrah, Pastor Earl thinks.
Tears. Crap. Roy had promised himself last year was it. The damn internet
ruined this place, now they come from everywhere.
“Look, Miss, let’s start over. Here, let me help you down. You just aren’t the
right type for horses.”
“What do you know, and wipe your chin. That stuff is gross. You’ll get lip
cancer or your tongue will get awful sores. You’d be dashing if you took better
care of yourself. When was your last, complete bath, anyway.”
Roy spit a glob across the reddish mane of the mare, at Sally’s eye level.
“You’re disgusting.” She grabbed the reins. My mother paid good money for
this shity riding camp, and I will not waste it. Teach me to ride this damn, broken-
down horse.
“What about your daddy?”
She sat frozen.
He waited. This was Idaho. People got no other places they need to go all at
the same time. He unbuckled the cinch strap, put a knee against her bloated
belly, and pulled. “Sorry, Miss. None of my business, that’s for sure.”
She looked towards Squaw Butte. Whether she saw its raw majesty was
anybody’s double-jeopardy guess.
“You thirsty? Want a pop?”
“My father is dead. He was killed in Iraq, a Navy Corpsman, assigned to the
First Marine Battalion out of Camp Pendleton. That’s California if you don’t
know.” She held out a hand. “I want down.”
Roy touched the heel of her patent leather boot and gently guided the toe
through the stirrup, placed his brown hand on the mare’s rump, and assisted
Sally with her other boot. “Nice boots. Hold the saddle horn.”
He took the reins and pulled them over the mare’s head. He clicked. The
mare took measured steps. He led horse and rider down the path, waded the
shallow stream, and led Sally through a green meadow of tall grass where no trail
could be seen.
She sat straight. “This is beautiful.”
Roy spit. “Kind of like heaven, I think.”
The End
Kind of Like Heaven
(2007) (Unpublished)
A Short Story by Russell Traughber
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