Big Sky

Crunching gravel alerted me to the two shiny black SUVs rolling down the long main drive from the highway. With a sigh, I lobbed Remi’s saddle over his back and did up the necessary straps and cinches with practiced ease.

He only huffed at me, as if to express his disdain for the entire day so far.

“Me too, buddy, me too,” I concurred, resting my head against his warm side. This morning had been hellacious, put simply. My father had been on my ass for hours, to make sure not a thing was out of place on the ranch. Needless to say, that meant everything that could go wrong, did. Murphy’s law, right?

There was no hot water in one of the “premier” cabins, meant for our guests of honor, so a plumber had to be called out at the crack of dawn. Not to mention, we had a horse colic overnight, requiring a vet to come out to monitor the situation, also meaning I was up all night walking a sweaty, grumpy and in-pain horse around and around the arena. In addition to that, our cook was sick, and wouldn’t be able to make it in from town for the evening.

I was exhausted and it wasn’t even noon.

The slamming of car doors and my father’s boisterous greeting boomed from the drive out front. I dusted off my jeans and slightly-nicer-than-usual top and kicked the mud off my boots. Much to my dad’s dismay, I hadn’t worn the awful rust-colored collared shirt with the ranch insignia like he wanted.

Running out of reasons to dawdle, I walked into the entry way of the barn.

“Welcome to Grant’s Forge Ranch!” my dad bustled around, shaking everyone’s hands and expressing his excitement that there were here, especially after such an incredible Stanley Cup win.

There were two men who looked to be security staff or administrative of some sort, and four dressed in none other than red and black hockey jerseys. The large white numbers on their arms read 65, 2, 88 and 19 respectively.

Not wanting to do the whole awkward greeting thing, I was content to wait in the shadows until my presence (or lack of) was noticed by my father. Number 88, the shortest one, caught sight of me and winked. Noticing this interaction, my dad turned to me and glared, giving me the “I’m still smiling but I’m really pissed at you” look. Understanding that I would probably be without a place to live if I didn’t walk over there with a smile plastered to my face, I did just that.

I walked up just as Mason arrived to start taking luggage up to the cabins. Smiling widely, I held out my hand.

“I’m Eliza, nice to meet all of you. Welcome to our ranch.”

Number 88 was the first to grab my hand. “No really, the pleasure is all mine. I’m Patrick. Patrick Kane.” He cocked his head, as though that should have a great significance to me.

Trying not to laugh, I snaked my hand away from him, the disappointment on his face evident, and turned to the other three. I shook their hands quickly, learning their names to be Andrew, Duncan and Jonathan. In general, they were as friendly as could be, and in a sense, they seemed relieved- maybe that I wasn’t a raving fan. However, the one named Jonathan was rather quiet, the hard set to his jaw giving me the impression he wasn’t as excited to be here as his teammates.

My father encouraged them to head into the club room of the main barn for drinks, snacks and sandwiches (whipped together by myself and my life saver of a best friend earlier in the morning) while Mason carried all of the luggage up to the cabins and the security people took care of paperwork and arrangements.

The three called Patrick, Andrew and Duncan turned to follow my father out of the mid-day sun and into the air conditioned club, but Number 19 quickly said “No, that’s okay. We’ll get these.” Mason screwed up his face, but thought better of arguing.

As if commanded by an unworldly being, the other three turned and marched back to the cars to get their own bags. It was incredibly amusing to watch, but Jonathan’s presence was undeniable. He was clearly a leader, and the steely attitude he possessed made much more sense. I reached into the back of the SUV and grabbed a bag for myself. Jonathan turned, poised to protest but I flashed a grin and started marching up the drive to the cabins we had set up before he could spit the sentence out.

Yelling over my shoulder I began the short historical spiel we typically gave to people who arrived at the ranch, “Back in 1889, Thaddeus Grant settled the ranch and blah blah blah.” I got about halfway through my little speech when I hear a snort and poorly masked giggling.

“Something funny?” Turning on my heel, I stopped to give them an expectant look.

Number 88 puffed out his chest and boasted, “I was just telling Shaw that I’d let you ride me like a bronco any day.” Jonathan punched him, hard, in the shoulder receiving a “what the hell, Jon” in response.

The ones named Andrew and Brandon dissolved in a pile of giggles, and Jonathan turned beet-red, obviously both livid and embarrassed. Caught off guard by his statement, it took me a moment to compose myself and get my jaw off the ground.

I glanced at the paperwork and turned to unlock the door to the first cabin for Mr. Shaw and Mr. Keith.

“I quit junior rodeo in high school, sorry honey.” I smirked, and continued up the path as the chorus of “ooooh no” and “damn, she got you” began behind me. I opened the door and let the sheepish Mr. Kane and Mr. Toews, who had cracked a smile at my comment, into their cabin.

I stood in the doorway to prepare the information that I needed to leave with them as Number 88 sulked off to one of the rooms on either side of the large main living space in the cabin. The apparent Mr. Toews took his bag from me and set it in one of the chairs.

Stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets, he stared at his feet for a moment.

“Look, I’m sorry about Kane-“I held my hand up to stop his monologue.

“No, really, I thought it was funny. I was warned of his…tendencies,” I smiled at him.

His expression softened and relief flooded his features. He rubbed the back of his neck, the red flush still evident. I went to pass him the packet of activity information and directions to town, as well as the keys to their cabin.

Reaching for the door, I looked back to the young man thumbing through the pamphlets.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I asked, “Sorry if this is really out of line, but why on earth did you come to a vacation ranch to celebrate? No offense, but you don’t seem thrilled to be here.”

A barely perceptible smile crept onto his face.

“That asshole,” gesturing over his shoulder to the closed bedroom door on the other side of the cabin, “got hung up on the idea of going to a dude ranch after watching some dumb TV show like six months before playoffs even started and basically told me that if we won the cup he was going to make me go with him. The other two were the only ones willing to go” He sighed, “Yes, there was liquor involved in me agreeing to that. I hoped he would forget.”

I bit my lip to keep own grin at bay.

“Well, Mr. Toews. I hope we can accommodate ya’ll and show you a good time despite your hesitations. If you need anything else, just call the main line and I’ll send someone out. If you guys want some time to freshen up, there will be a family style sit-down supper up at the house at 6:30 and a campfire after.” I backed out of the door and closed it gently behind me, flashing what I hoped was a warm smile at him.


Several minutes later I found myself back at the barn. Mason was in the feed room, preparing the horses’ evening grain. Baz announced my entrance by yipping and circling my legs. Mason poked his head out into the aisle.

“So, pretty boy wanted to carry his own bags, huh?” Mason snarked. He didn’t much like carrying people’s luggage, but he didn’t like being told how to do his job even more. A southern boy by birth, he was full of pride and a tendency for anger.

Turning so he wouldn’t see my eyes roll at his grousing. “Kind of a nice quality in famous people, I think,” I told him.

Receiving a sneer in response, I grabbed my napping horse’s reins and clucked softly. Leading him out in the main arena, I tightened the cinch and threw my own long frame up over his back. Doing some gait changes to warm up, I pushed my horse through his walk, trot and canter and made him trot over some small obstacles.

The only man I had ever loved besides my father was the handsome grey horse I was currently perched on. I had hand-reared this horse from birth, after his mom had rejected him six years ago. Being so incredibly in-sync had its advantages, as I could ask anything of this horse and he would trust me willingly. He ran like the wind and had a good mind about him. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

Once Remi was actually listening, I asked him to exert some energy. Coming off the long rail one last time, I turned him down the center line. His ears flicked back to me, asking if it was okay to really run. I pushed the reins forward, giving him the go ahead to let his limbs stretch, pushing him into the barrel pattern. He ran a clean, fast pattern making three beautiful turns and rating his speed perfectly when asked. In fact, had I not been there to ask him, he likely would have done it by himself. Pulling him up against the rail, I let him drop to a walk to give him pats and praise for his run.

Hearing clapping, I wheeled around, unaware of being watched. Two red-clad figures were leaning against the rail at the end of the arena. I trotted Remi towards them.

Out of breath and definitely kind of sweaty, I stopped several feet away.

“Did you guys need something?”

Patrick piped up, “No, I just wanted to let you know that whatever you just did was wicked! You’re gonna teach me, right?”

Jonathan smacked him in the arm, and I swear Patrick turned a bit red. “And I want to say sorry for sexually harassing you,” he said to the ground.

Dismounting smoothly, I approached the two men.

My stony expression apparently making the apologetic hockey player sweat, I couldn’t help but laugh at him as he started to stammer a more fervent apology.

“Trust me, it’s not the must vulgar thing a patron has said to me,” I said, earning a curious glance from both of them. A fair few creepy old men had made comments about me, either just within earshot, or directly to me. Definitely would not consider that my favorite part of the job.

“That being said, I am a professional and it’s in my contract to be just that.” I held out my hand to shake, “Mr. Kane, my name is Eliza Grant and I’ll be your coordinator for the week.”

Once his mild confusion broke, he shook my hand again. With disappointment, he said, “I think I liked the other version of Eliza Grant better.”