Summer Friday Read, Model Wave, Ch. 5
It was the best of vacations, and the worst of vacations
Model Wave Free Ebook July 1-2
On Fridays this summer, I’m reading from MODEL WAVE, romance, boats and bad business in the Wisconsin Northwoods. The book is available from Bookshop. Support local indie bookstores and purchase a copy. Or, it’s at the big place, the ‘Zon. The ebook will be on free on Kindle Tuesday, July 1, and Wednesday, July 2. It’s a free ebook for your holiday reading. 😊
Model Wave, Chapter 5
Cousin Lou swears by buttermilk, using it in everything from fried chicken to pie crusts. I’m no kitchen wiz, so leave ingredient expertise to her. But after today, when Lou hears about my experience with buttermilk, I’ll have serious cred in her baking world.
I stood at a corral fence, staring at the most stunning horse I’d ever seen. Buttermilk was a cream-colored beauty with ebony legs, a vanilla-and-black vision.
My eyes nearly popped out. “Was she designed in Paris?”
Cole laughed. “Nebraska. Brought her here as a yearling. Knew she was special.”
Max and I had been at the farm, a log cabin and barn on eighty acres, for only ten minutes. I sensed a problem: the dog had leapt from the truck and raced about, claiming the land as his new frontier.
I owned a Federal-style fixer-upper on a city lot. It had a decent backyard, but couldn’t compare with this.
The dog loped to the corral, then flattened to his belly, studying the horses within. Buttermilk gazed at him through kohl-rimmed eyes. She was a fashion model mare, a blend of Bond Girl and dandelion puff. Near her stood a stately gray gelding with a chiseled head and rock-like shoulders. He could have been an ambassador—or a Vegas high-roller if he had a tuxedo stashed in the barn.
“That horse has a Dean Martin vibe,” I said.
Cole smiled. “His name’s Fred. As in Flintstone. But I like your suggestion, too.”
“He looks like he’s carved from granite.”
Cole gave us a tour of the barn, making Max feel at home, showing him the stalls, the tack room, and a bowl of water. Then he knelt to nose level and inquiries began: “Max, how old are you?”
I answered for the dog. Max can be shy. “About eight. Not sure because he’s a rescue.”
“You’ve been on a farm before, Max?”
I nodded. “Yes, Fern Bubble’s place outside Cinnamon. She runs a public relations business and a horse rescue. He loves it.”
Cole glanced at me. “Does Max enjoy boating? Been on the water yet?”
“No, but he walks down Lollygag Lane. And he’s working in the rental’s backyard, organizing the squirrels.”
Cole scratched the dog’s chest. “Collies like jobs. What’s his skill set?”
“In his previous life, I believe he held an executive position in rodent control.”
“Send me his resumé. This place is lacking in that department.”
“He’ll email it. His computer is back at the rental.”
“Speaking of, Max was alone at your place when Curtis Grey was found on the pontoon?”
“Yes.”
Cole frowned. “No alibi, Max. That’s serious.”
“He says he wants an attorney.”
The dog barked, which defense enough for Cole. I sensed a bromance brewing.
Cole gave the dog instructions for the ride: Stay clear of the horses’ back legs. No running off. Chasing butterflies was allowed; chasing deer was not.
“My property’s fenced,” Cole said. “There’s one road along the south side, barely any cars. Max will be safe off leash.”
Cole tacked up the horses—and me, teaching “equine tact,” the manners riders should follow. “Hold the reins, but not too tight. Don’t hang on her mouth. Sit tall and follow strides with your lower back. Breathe deep. She’ll be more comfortable and move better.”
I didn’t want to interfere with Buttermilk’s runway walk, so I complied.
Cole adjusted my stirrups. “You have long legs,” he said.
“Not like hers. This horse has million-dollar gams.”
He mounted Fred, a gray-haired mountain. A tap of Cole’s heel sent Fred sidestepping closer.
We were inches apart. Cole smelled like leather and bacon—the Northwoods breakfast special, I hear. He rested a hand on Buttermilk’s rump. If I were a horse, I’d have bucked. But I’m a human, and my heart raced at having him so close.
“One thing before we ride out,” he said. “I’m smitten with you, Mel Tower.”
Our lips met in the space between the horses. He tasted like leather … and bacon.
Wow.
We’d spent only a few hours together, bonded mostly over frozen custard. We lived hours apart, and I had an ex—well, I looked at Cole.
We kissed again, and I smiled. Nothing else mattered at the moment.
I was on vacation, after all.
It was a tale of opposites, the best of vacations and the worst of vacations.
Cole’s fields—how were they so green and lush? The sky above—how so blue? The lilacs—how so fragrant?
I marveled as we rode through fields. Bald eagles flew over as if on cue. The majestic creatures played on the breeze like feathered kites, thrilling us with their skills, then they flew off to entertain other lovebirds.
As for the horses, Fred was a gentleman. He led the way over a creek, but allowed Buttermilk first dibs on grass. My girl was perfection on hooves. I barely used the reins as she walked, her first gear four cushiony beats.
Her second gear was a pitter-pat jog. Highly prized in quarter horses, according to Cole. And third gear was a rocking-chair lope.
Again, prized.
Buttermilk pricked her delicate ears as she glanced left and right. From the saddle, I glimpsed the outline of her soulful eyes. It was rare to find such a lovely creature inside and out, equine status notwithstanding.
As someone who once worked among beautiful beings, it was not always so, I knew.
“Let’s get off and walk,” Cole said. “Your legs will be sore otherwise.”
Did he think I cared? I’d have stayed in Buttermilk’s saddle until a week from Tuesday.
We halted near the road, and Cole helped me off. He kissed me again. It may have been the purpose of dismounting, but I wasn’t complaining.
I leaned back into Buttermilk’s warm shoulder, and Cole pressed into me. “Mel, I don’t know how to say this. When I first saw you, I was … I’m sorry, I can’t describe it.”
I felt like a teenager with a crush. “You shared custard on our first date. And the best horse in the world on our second. No need to say anything.”
Max woofed.
Cole looked down. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you, either, Max.”
If someone had said I’d be standing by a super-model horse, kissing a Northwoods lawman, I’d have said I have a craft mall to sell you—which I was considering because I’d never met anyone like Cole Lawrence.
It was unlike me to jump into anything, much less a relationship. I’d had an on-off thing with a pilot for years. I’d settled for it because it was my way of protecting my heart. Have a phone? Dial “1-800-Emotional Disconnect,” and Mel Tower answers.
Once I realized that’s what I was doing (it took me a while; I’m not the sharpest spur in the tack box), I ended it.
Cole kissed me again. An elixir cologne of fresh air, leather, and horse flesh made my mind race. I lived five hours away. He was a busy sheriff with a county to run—could we have a relationship?
Max barked—an SUV had stopped on the road.
Cole stared at it, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t be alarmed, Mel. It appears that my ex is here. I’ll handle it.”
A blond woman emerged from the vehicle and marched toward us—Ericka Dimblé, the real estate agent I was haggling with to buy the rental, a tough cookie. She was Cole’s ex?
Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t sell my place just yet.
Maybe Cole and I would not figure this out.
An eagle soared overhead and downloaded its breakfast on Ericka’s car.
FYI, the bird’s deposit was plaid.
Kidding.
Jokes were all I had to distract myself while Cole and the woman argued. He’d trudged toward her, leading Fred. The horse looked bored, like he’d experienced this drama before.
Fred rested a back hoof, and, I swear, rolled an eye at Buttermilk. She, ever the lady, tried to distract me from the ugly scene by commenting about the weather.
Okay, maybe not.
I’d already tangled with Ericka. She was a shark, meticulous about rental contracts and purchase offers. I hadn’t been offended—it was due diligence. I was waiting on an inspection report and we’d haggled over who’d pay for it.
Should I hitch a ride with her back to town to discuss it?
Bad idea.
Her body language screamed trouble. She gave off not a horse-of-a-different-color vibe, more like rodeo-bronc-giving-eight-seconds-of-hell vibe. My career in modeling provided an ability to read posture and energy. Poses and photographs were stories without words, after all.
Erika jabbed a finger at Cole while popping out word bubbles. I couldn’t understand what she said, but she used bold font.
She was furious; I didn’t like to see anyone so distressed.
Cole remained stoic during the conversation. Like Fred, his horse, he cocked a hip, rested a foot. The more animated Ericka became, the more detached Cole behaved.
His relaxed vibe said he chewed a blade of grass in his mind, pondering life. It was like Cole listened to “The Old Gray Mare Ain’t What She Used to Be” in his head while Ericka lost her marbles. By the end of their conversation, he appeared to be chilling out at the end of a pier. She looked ready to kill him.
Ericka looked past Cole’s shoulder to glare at me.
Or, she was ready to kill me.
On the ride back, I attempted to smooth things over. “I have an ex, too, Cole. He’s a pilot. If you see a jumbo-jet tied to a hitching post in Copper Falls, it’s probably him.”
It was a joke, but it didn’t go over. Buttermilk laid her ears back. Cole looked uncomfortable. We rode back to the barn as though under a gag order, then unsaddled.
Cole looked like he wanted to unsaddle feelings about what happened, but not to me.
I patted his arm. “I’ll call an Uber to get back to town. Don’t worry.”
He shook his head. “Fred is the only Uber around here. Or, in winter, it’s a snowmobile. I’ll drive you.”
I used the facilities in the house to wash up. The log home was open on the first floor—kitchen, dining, living. Neat as a pin. Also, I saw no “pins” during my brief visit inside. No pinned love notes from Ericka on the memo board by the door. No framed shot of them on the entry table.
One of her paintings was in the bathroom. I recognized the work because I’d seen pieces like it in her office. When I’d stopped to get keys for the rental, she’d shown off her watercolors.
In the bath, I studied the picture. It was black splotches interspersed with sharp lines of silver. It looked like a raven holding a knife. Or maybe a porcupine holding a spear?
The image hung in the bath, a location that added rich context.
I was overthinking, though. It wasn’t my house, artwork, or relationship.
I went outside and hopped in the truck. Max was buckled in the back seat.
“It’s okay, Cole,” I said. “No harm, no foul. People our age have baggage and exes. Or, not-so-exes.”
“It’s not what you think, Mel.”
“I’m not thinking at all. I enjoyed the ride. By the way, is Buttermilk for sale? I have a right arm I’d give for her. I’ll even throw in a cousin named Lou—”
“Let’s get back to town,” Cole said.
While we drove back to Copper Falls, I felt the roll-splat, roll-splat of a flat tire.
Sure, I imagined it, but it was no less real. Cole and I had bonded over spaghetti, then shared a turtle sundae. We’d kissed and had a horse ride through heaven—then hell.
In the last hour, we’d detoured into Awkwardville, land of potholes, where exes pop up like cardboard ghouls in a funhouse.
Cole had retreated into his own world. Embarrassed, I could tell. His eyes were blue crystals, clear as glass. Gorgeous, but that was the problem. I could see straight into his mind. He was contemplating something, probably his relationship with Ericka, which appeared to be long-term and complicated.
Whatever was between them seemed to be a sinkhole, filled with sentiment.
He pulled into the gravel drive at my cottage, then stopped. “Take care, Mel.”
“Max says thanks.” I smiled. “He had a great time. I enjoyed it, too.”
The dog and I got out. Max whined as the truck drove away. His ears drooped when it disappeared around the corner. Poor pooch acted like he’d lost a friend.
Broke my heart.
I hugged him. “C’mon, Max. Let’s get something to eat.”
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Sleuthing in Style Now Available
Thank you for reading, or listening to Model Wave. Chapters One, Two, Three, and Four are linked.
Sleuthing in Style, the Ebook sampler will be available on Amazon … someday. Technical problems on their end mean it’s stuck in the void somewhere. Follow me on Amazon for updates. Or, subscribe to Saddles & Stories for a free copy. It will come right in your inbox. 💖
Wisconsin Writers Association Video Book Reviews
My first attempt at a video book review for WWA ended in a blooper reel. Makes sense looking back. I’m a morning person attempting a new project at the end of the day. I’ll post more to my YouTube channel … if I dare. But my video book reviews will be on the Midwest Writers Room YouTube channel. Others, too. Follow here for more.
Local News, Wisconsin style
Literatus & Co. is an indie bookstore in Watertown, Wisconsin, that goes above and beyond when it comes to books, events, and supporting the local community. From its fun “AUDITION” application tab to its new room space for hosting events, it’s worth a visit. It you’re in the Watertown area, check it out. Take the scenic route—especially this fall—and stop in. Coffee, bakery, local authors, and books. What’s not to love? (And yes, they carry my funny mysteries AND my new children’s horse story, Nellie’s Island.)
Speaking of islands, Nellie’s Island, small hooves, brave heart, is available on Mackinac Island at Island Books. I’m thrilled that the story will reach visitors to this historic island, named for turtles, preserved for those who love walkabouts, history, and horses.
There will be no post next week. Happy Fourth of July, friends. Have a safe week, and God Bless America, land of the free, home of wonderful books! 🇺🇸
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This is a brilliant idea! Author TK Sheffield has created a sampler of her work, some published, some unpublished -- but ALL award winning stories! What a great way for readers to preview her laugh-out-loud storytelling. I know when I pick up one of her books that I'm going to be entertained.