‘The Longest Ride’ Chapters 4-6

“No,” she said. “I’ve never ridden. There aren’t too many horses in Jersey City. But growing up, I always wanted to. I think all little girls do.” She paused. “What’s your horse’s name?”

“Horse.”

Sophia waited for the joke, but it didn’t come. “You call your horse ‘Horse’?”

“He doesn’t mind.”

“You should give him a noble name. Like Prince or Chief or something.”

“It might confuse him now.”

“Trust me. Anything is better than Horse. It’s like naming a dog Dog.”

“I have a dog named Dog. Australian Cattle Dog.” He turned, his expression utterly matter-of-fact. “Great herder.”

“And your mom didn’t complain?”

“My mom named him.”

She shook her head. “My roommate is never going to believe this.”

“What? That my animals have—in your mind—strange names?”

“Among other things,” she teased.

“So tell me about college,” he said, and for the next half hour, she filled in the details about her daily life. Even to her ears, it sounded dull—classes, studying, social life on the weekends—but he seemed interested, asking questions now and then, but for the most part allowing her to ramble. She described the sorority—especially Mary-Kate—and a little about Brian and how he’d been behaving since school started. As they talked, people began to drift through the lot, some threading among the trucks with a tip of their hats, others stopping to congratulate Luke on his rides.

As the evening rolled on and the temperature dropped, Sophia felt goose bumps form on her arms. She crossed her arms, hunkering down in her chair.

“I’ve got a blanket in the cab if you need it,” he offered.

“Thanks,” she said, “but that’s okay. I should probably be getting back. I don’t want my friends to leave without me.”

“I figured,” he said. “I’ll walk you back.”

He helped her down from the pickup and they retraced their earlier path, the music growing louder as they approached. Soon they were standing outside the barn, which was only slightly less crowded than it had been when she’d left. Somehow it felt as though she’d been gone for hours.

“Do you want me to come in with you? In case Brian is still around?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stick close to my roommate.”

He studied the ground, then raised his eyes. “I had a nice time talking to you, Sophia.”

“Me too,” she said. “And thanks again. For earlier, I mean.”

“I was glad to help.”

He nodded and turned, Sophia watching as he started away. It would have ended there—and later she would wonder whether she should have let it—but instead she took a step after him, the words coming out automatically.

“Luke,” she called. “Wait.”

When he faced her, she raised her chin slightly. “You said you were going to show me your barn. Supposedly, it’s more rickety than this one.”

He smiled, flashing his dimples. “One o’clock tomorrow?” he asked. “I’ve got some things to do in the morning. How about if I pick you up?”

“I can drive,” she said. “Just text me the directions.”

“I don’t have your number.”

“What’s yours?”

When he told her, she dialed it, hearing the ring a few feet away. She ended the call and stared at him, wondering what had gotten into her.

“Now you do.”

Chapter 5

Ira

It’s growing even darker now, and the late winter weather has continued to worsen. The winds have risen to a shriek, and the windows of the car are thick with snow. I am slowly being buried alive, and I think again about the car. It is cream colored, a 1988 Chrysler, and I wonder whether it will be spotted once the sun has come up. Or whether it will simply blend into the surroundings.

“You must not think these things,” I hear Ruth say. “Someone will come. It won’t be long now.”

She’s sitting where she’d been before, but she looks different now. Slightly older and wearing a different dress . . . but the dress seems vaguely familiar. I am struggling to recall a memory of her like this when I hear her voice again.

“It was the summer of 1940. July.”

It takes a moment before it comes back. Yes, I think to myself. That’s right. The summer after I’d finished my first year of college. “I remember,” I say.

“Now you remember,” she teases. “But you needed my help. You used to remember everything.”

“I used to be younger.”

“I was younger once, too.”

“You still are.”

“Not anymore,” she says, not hiding the echo of sadness. “I was young back then.”

I blink, trying and failing to bring her into focus. She was seventeen years old. “This is the dress you wore when I finally asked you to walk with me.”

“No,” she says to me. “This is the dress I wore when I asked you.”

I smile. This is a story we often told at dinner parties, the story of our first date. Over the years, Ruth and I have learned to tell it well. Here in the car, she begins the story in the same way she’d always done for our guests. She settles her hands in her lap and sighs, her expression alternating between feigned disappointment and confusion. “By then, I knew you were never going to say a word to me. You had been home from university for a month, and still you never approached me, so after Shabbat services had ended, I walked up to you. I looked you right in the eyes and I said, ‘I am no longer seeing David Epstein.’ ”

“I remember,” I say.

“Do you remember what you said to me? You said, ‘Oh,’ and then you blushed and looked at your feet.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“You know this happened. Then I told you that I would like you to walk me home.”

“I remember that your father wasn’t happy about it.”

“He thought David would become a fine young man. He did not know you.”

“Nor did he like me,” I interject. “I could feel him staring at the back of my head while we walked. That’s why I kept my hands in my pockets.”

She tilts her head, evaluating me. “Is that why, even when we were walking, you said nothing to me?”

“I wanted him to know my intentions were honorable.”

“When I got home, he asked if you were mute. I had to remind him again that you were an excellent student in college, that your marks were very high, and that you would graduate in only three years. Whenever I spoke with your mother, she made sure I knew that.”

My mother. The matchmaker.

“It would have been different had your parents not been following us,” I say. “If they hadn’t been acting as chaperones, I would have swept you off your feet. I would have taken your hand and serenaded you. I would have picked you a bouquet of flowers. You would have swooned.”

“Yes, I know. The young Frank Sinatra again. You have said this already.”

“I’m just trying to keep the story accurate. There was a girl at school who had her eye on me, you know. Her name was Sarah.”

Ruth nods, looking unconcerned. “Your mother told me about her, too. She also said that you had not called or written to her since you had returned. I knew it was not serious.”

“How often did you talk to my mother?”

“In the beginning, not too much, and my mother was always there. But a few months before you came home, I asked your mother if she would help me with my English and we began to meet once or twice a week. There were still many words I did not know, and she could explain their meaning in a way that I could understand. I used to say that I became a teacher because of my father, and that was true, but I also became a teacher because of your mother. She was very patient with me. She would tell me stories, and that is another way she helped me with the language. She said I must learn to do this myself, because everyone in the South tells stories.”

I smile. “What stories did she tell?”

“She told stories about you.”

I know this, of course. There are few secrets left in any long marriage.

“Which was your favorite?”

She thinks for a moment. “The one from when you were a little boy,” she finally says. “Your mother told me that you found an injured squirrel, and despite the fact that your father refused to let you keep it in the store, you hid it in a box behind her sewing machine and nursed it back to health. Once it was better, you released it in the park, and even though it ran off, you returned every day to look for it, in case it needed your help again. She would tell me that it was a sign that your heart was pure, that you formed deep attachments, and that once you loved something—or someone—you would never stop.”

Like I said, the matchmaker.

It was only after we were married that my mother admitted to me that she’d been “teaching” Ruth by telling her stories about me. At the time, I felt ambivalent about this. I wanted to believe that I’d won Ruth’s heart on my own, and I said as much to her. My mother laughed and told me she was only doing what mothers have always done for their sons. Then she told me that it was my job to prove that she hadn’t been lying, because that’s what sons were supposed to do for their mothers.

“And here I thought I was charming.”

“You became charming, once you were no longer afraid of me. But that did not happen on that first walk. When we finally reached the factory where we lived, I said, ‘Thank you for walking with me, Ira,’ and all you said was, ‘You are welcome.’ Then you turned around, nodded at my parents, and left.”

“But I was better the next week.”

“Yes. You talked about the weather. You said, ‘It sure is cloudy,’ three times. Twice you added, ‘I wonder if it will rain later.’ Your conversational skills were dazzling. By the way, your mother taught me the meaning of that word.”

“And yet, you still wanted to walk with me.”

“Yes,” she says, looking right at me.

“And in early August, I asked if I could buy you a chocolate soda. Just like David Epstein used to do.”

She smooths an errant tendril of her hair, her eyes holding steady on my own. “And I remember telling you that the chocolate soda was the most delicious that I had ever tasted.”

That was our beginning. It’s not a thrilling tale of adventure or the kind of fairy-tale romance portrayed in movies, but it felt like divine intervention. That she saw something special in me made no sense at all, but I was bright enough to seize the opportunity. After that, we spent most of our free time together, although there wasn’t much left of it. By then, the end of summer was already approaching. Across the Atlantic, France had already surrendered and the Battle of Britain was under way, but even so, the war in those last few weeks seemed far away. We went for walks and talked endlessly in the park; as David once did, I continued to buy her chocolate sodas. Twice, I brought Ruth to a movie, and once, I took both her and her mother to lunch. And always, I would walk her home from the synagogue, her parents trailing ten paces behind, allowing us a bit more privacy.

“Your parents eventually came to like me.”

“Yes.” She nods. “But that is because I liked you. You made me laugh, and you were the first to help me do that in this country. My father would always ask what you had said that I found so funny, and I would tell him that it was less about what you said than the way you would say things. Like the face you made when you described your mother’s cooking.”

“My mother could burn water and yet never learned how to boil an egg.”

“She was not that bad.”

“I grew up learning how to eat and hold my breath at the same time. Why do you think my father and I were as thin as straws?”

She shakes her head. “If your mother only knew you said such terrible things.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. She knew she wasn’t a good cook.”

She is quiet for a moment. “I wish we could have had more time that summer. I was very sad when you left to go back to university.”

“Even if I’d stayed, we couldn’t have been together. You were leaving, too. You were heading off to Wellesley.”

She nods, but her expression is distant. “I was very fortunate for the opportunity. My father knew a professor there, and he helped me in many ways. But the year was still very hard for me. Even though you had not written to Sarah, I knew you would see her again, and I worried that you might still develop feelings for her. And I was afraid that Sarah would see the same things in you that I did, and that she would use her charms to take you away from me.”

“That would have never happened.”

“I know this now, but I did not know it then.”

I shift my head slightly, and all at once there are flashes of white in the corners of my eyes, a railroad spike near my hairline. I close my eyes, waiting for it to pass, but it seems to take forever. I concentrate, trying to breathe slowly, and eventually it begins to recede. The world comes back in bits and pieces, and I think again about the accident. My face is sticky and the deflated air bag is coated with dust and blood. The blood scares me, but despite this, there is magic in the car, a magic that has brought Ruth back to me. I swallow, trying to wet the back of my throat, but I can make no moisture and it feels like sandpaper.

I know Ruth is worried about me. In the lengthening shadows, I see her watching me, this woman I have always adored. I think back again to 1940, trying to distract her from her fears.

“And yet despite your concerns about Sarah,” I say, “you didn’t come home in December to see me.”

In my mind’s eye, I see Ruth roll her eyes—her standard response to my complaint. “I did not come home because I could not afford the train ticket,” she says. “You know this. I was working at a hotel, and leaving would have been impossible. The scholarship only covered tuition, so I had to pay for everything else.”

“Excuses,” I tease.

She ignores me, as always. “Sometimes, I would work at the desk all night and still have to go to class in the morning. It was all I could do not to fall asleep with my book open on the desk. It was not easy. By the time I finished my first year, I was very much looking forward to coming home for the summer, if only to go straight to bed.”

“But then I ruined your plans by showing up at the train station.”

“Yes.” She smiles. “My plan was ruined.”

“I hadn’t seen you in nine months,” I point out. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“And you did. On the train, I wondered whether you would be there, but I did not want to be disappointed. And then, when the train pulled into the station and I saw you from the window, my heart gave a little jump. You were very handsome.”

“My mother had made me a new suit.”

She emits a wistful laugh, still lost in the memory. “And you had brought my parents with you.”

I would shrug, but I am afraid to move. “I knew they’d want to see you, too, so I borrowed my father’s car.”

“That was gallant.”

“Or selfish. Otherwise, you might have gone straight home.”

“Yes, maybe,” she teases. “But of course, you had thought of that, too. You had asked my father if you could take me to dinner. He said that you had come to the factory while he was working to ask his permission.”

“I didn’t want to give you a reason to say no.”

“I would not have said no, even if you had not asked my father.”

“I know this now, but I didn’t know it then,” I say, echoing her earlier words. We are, and always have been, the same in so many ways. “When you stepped off the train that night, I remember thinking that the station should have been filled with photographers, waiting to snap your picture. You looked like a movie star.”

“I had been in the train for twelve hours. I looked terrible.”

This is a lie and we both know it. Ruth was beautiful, and even well into her fifties, men’s eyes would follow her when she walked into a room.

“It was all I could do not to kiss you.”

“That is not true,” she counters. “You would never have done such a thing in front of my parents.”

She’s right, of course. Instead, I stood back, allowing her parents to greet and visit with her first; only then, after a few minutes, did I approach her. Ruth reads my thoughts. “That night was the first time my father really understood what I saw in you. Later, he told me that he had observed that you were not only hardworking and kind, but a gentleman as well.”

“He still didn’t think I was good enough for you.”

“No father thinks any man is good enough for his daughter.”

“Except David Epstein.”

“Yes,” she teases. “Except for him.”

I smile, even though it sends up another electric flare inside me. “At dinner, I couldn’t stop staring at you. You were so much more beautiful than I remembered.”

“But we were strangers again,” she says. “It took some time for the conversation to be easy, like it was the summer before. Until the walk home, I think.”

“I was playing hard to get.”

“No, you were being you,” she says. “And yet, you were not you. You had become a man in the year we had been apart. You even took my hand as you walked me to the door, something you had never done before. I remember because it made my arm tingle, and then you stopped and looked at me and I knew then exactly what was going to happen.”

“I kissed you good night,” I say.

“No,” Ruth says to me, her voice dipping to a seductive register. “You kissed me, yes, but it was not just good night. Even then, I could feel the promise in it, the promise that you would kiss me just like that, forever.”

+++

In the car, I can still recall that moment—the touch of her lips against my own, the sense of excitement and pure wonder as I hold her in my arms. But suddenly the world begins to spin. Hard spins, as if I’m on a runaway roller coaster, and all at once, Ruth vanishes from my arms. Instead, my head presses hard against the steering wheel and I blink rapidly, willing the world to stop spinning. I need water, sure that a single sip will be enough to stop it. But there is no water and I succumb to the dizziness before everything goes black.

+++

When I wake, the world comes back slowly. I squint in the darkness, but Ruth is no longer in the passenger seat beside me. I am desperate to have her back. I concentrate, trying to conjure her image, but nothing comes and my throat seems to close in on itself.

Looking back, Ruth had been right about the changes in me. That summer, the world had changed and I understood that any time I spent with Ruth should be regarded as precious. War, after all, was everywhere. Japan and China had been at war for four years, and throughout the spring of 1941, more countries had fallen to the Wehrmacht, including Yugoslavia and Greece. The English had retreated in the face of Rommel’s Afrika Korps all the way to Egypt. The Suez Canal was threatened, and though I didn’t know it then, German panzers and infantry were in position to lead the imminent invasion of Russia. I wondered how long America’s isolation would last.

I had never dreamed of being a soldier; I had never fired a gun. I was not, nor ever had been, a fighter of any sort, but even so, I loved my country, and I spent much of that year trying to imagine a future distorted by war. And I wasn’t alone in trying to come to grips with this new world. Over the summer, my father read two or three newspapers a day and listened to the radio continuously; my mother volunteered for the Red Cross. Ruth’s parents were especially frightened, and I often found them huddled at the table, speaking in low voices. They had not heard from anyone in their family for months. It was because of the war, others would whisper. But even in North Carolina, rumors had begun to circulate about what was happening to the Jews in Poland.

Despite the fears and whispers of war, or maybe because of them, I always regarded the summer of 1941 as my last summer of innocence. It was the summer in which Ruth and I spent nearly all our free time together, falling ever more deeply in love. She would visit me in the shop or I would visit her at the factory—she answered phones for her uncle that summer—and in the evenings, we would stroll beneath the stars. Every Sunday, we picnicked in the park near our home, nothing extravagant, just enough to hold us over until we had dinner together later. In the evenings, she would sometimes come to my parents’ home or I would visit hers, where we would listen to classical music on the phonograph. When the summer drew to a close and Ruth boarded the train for Massachusetts, I retreated to a corner of the station, my face in my hands, because I knew that nothing would ever be the same. I knew the time was coming when I would eventually be called up to fight.

And a few months later, on December 7, 1941, I was proven right.

+++

Throughout the night, I continue to fade in and out. The wind and snow remain constant. In those moments when I am awake, I wonder if it will ever be light; I wonder if I will ever see a sunrise again. But mostly I continue to concentrate on the past, hoping that Ruth will reappear. Without her, I think to myself, I am already dead.

When I graduated in May 1942, I returned home, but I did not recognize the shop. Where once there were suits hanging from the racks out front, there were thirty sewing machines and thirty women, making uniforms for the military. Bolts of heavy cloth were arriving twice a day, filling the back room entirely. The space next door, which had been vacant for years, had been taken over by my father, and that space was large enough to house sixty sewing machines. My mother oversaw production while my father worked the phones, kept the books, and ensured delivery to the army and marine bases that were springing up throughout the South.

I knew I was about to be drafted. My order number was low enough to make selection inevitable, and that meant either the army or the marines, battles in the trenches. The brave were drawn to do such things, but as I mentioned, I was not brave. On the train ride home, I’d already decided to enlist in the U.S. Army Air Corps. Somehow, the idea of fighting in the air seemed less frightening than fighting on the ground. In time, however, I would be proven wrong about this.

On the evening I arrived home, I told my parents as we stood in the kitchen. My mother immediately began to wring her hands. My father said nothing, but later, as he jotted entries into his bookkeeping ledger, I thought I saw the gleam of moisture in his eyes.

I had also come to another decision. Before Ruth returned to Greensboro, I met with her father, and I told him how much his daughter meant to me. Two days later, I drove her parents to the station just as I had the previous year. Again, I let them greet her first, and again, I took Ruth out to dinner. It was there, while eating in a largely empty restaurant, that I told her my plans. Unlike my parents, she didn’t shed a tear. Not then.

I didn’t bring her home right away. Instead, after dinner we went to the park, near the spot where we’d shared so many picnics. It was a moonless night, and the lights in the park had been shut off. As I slipped my hand into hers, I could barely make out her features.

I touched the ring in my pocket, the one I had told her father I wanted to offer his daughter. I had debated long about this, not because I wasn’t sure about my own intentions, but because I wasn’t sure about hers. But I was in love with her, and heading off to war, and I wanted to know she would be here when I returned. Dropping to one knee, I told her how much she meant to me. I told her that I couldn’t imagine life without her, and I asked her to be my wife. As I spoke the words, I offered Ruth the ring. She didn’t say anything right away, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared in that moment. But then, reading my thoughts, she took the ring and slipped it on before reaching for my hand. I rose, standing before her under a star-filled sky. She slipped her arms around me. “Yes,” she whispered. We stood together, just the two of us, holding each other for what seemed like hours. Even now, almost seventy years later, I can feel her warmth despite the chill in the car. I can smell her perfume, something floral and delicate. I draw a long breath, trying to hold on to it, just as I held on to her that night.

Later, our arms entwined, we strolled through the park, talking about our future together. Her voice brimmed with love and excitement, yet it is this part of the evening that has always filled me with regret. I am reminded of the man I was never able to be; of the dreams that never came true. As I feel the familiar wave of shame wash over me, I catch the scent of her perfume once more. It is stronger now, and it occurs to me that it’s not a memory, that I can smell it in the car. I am afraid to open my eyes, but I do so anyway. At first, everything is blurry and dark and I wonder if I will be able to see anything at all.

But then, finally, I see her. She is translucent, ghostlike again, but it is Ruth. She is here—she came back to me, I think—and my heart surges inside my chest. I want to reach for her, to take her in my arms, but I know this is impossible, so I concentrate instead. I try to bring her into better focus, and as my eyes adjust, I notice that her dress is the color of cream, with ruffles down the front. It is the dress she wore the night I proposed.

But Ruth is not happy with me. “No, Ira,” she suddenly says. There is no mistaking the warning in her tone. “We must not talk about this. The dinner, yes. The proposal, yes. But not this.”

Even now, I can’t believe she’s come back. “I know it makes you sad—,” I begin.

“It does not make me sad,” she objects. “You are the one who is sad over this. You have carried this sadness with you ever since that night. I should never have said the things I did.”

“But you did.”

At this, she bows her head. Her hair, unlike mine, is brown and thick, rich with the possibilities of life.

“That was the first night I told you that I loved you,” she says. “I told you that I wanted to marry you. I promised that I would wait for you and that we would marry as soon as you returned.”

“But that’s not all you said . . .”

“It is the only thing that matters,” she says, lifting her chin. “We were happy, yes? For all the years we were together?”

“Yes.”

“And you loved me?”

“Always.”

“Then I want you to hear what I am saying to you, Ira,” she says, her impatience barely in check. She leans forward. “I never once regretted that we married. You made me happy and you made me laugh, and if I could do it all over again, I would not hesitate. Look at our life, at the trips we took, the adventures we had. As your father used to say, we shared the longest ride together, this thing called life, and mine has been filled with joy because of you. Unlike other couples, we did not even argue.”

“We argued,” I protest.

“Not real arguments,” she insists. “Not the kind that mean anything. Yes, I would become upset when you forgot to take out the garbage, but that is not a real argument. That is nothing. It passes like a leaf blown by the window. It is over and done and it is forgotten quickly.”

“You forget—”

“I remember,” she says, cutting me off, knowing what I was about to say. “But we found a way to heal. Together. Just as we always did.”

Despite her words, I still feel the regret, a deep-seated ache I’ve carried with me forever.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I want you to know that I’ve always been sorry.”

“Do not say these things,” she says, her voice beginning to crack.

“I can’t help it. We talked for hours that night.”

“Yes,” she admits. “We talked about the summers we spent together. We talked about school, we talked about the fact that you would one day take over your father’s shop. And later that night, when I was at home, I lay awake in bed looking at the ring for hours. The next morning, I showed it to my mother and she was happy for me. Even my father was pleased.”

I know she’s trying to distract me, but it does no good. I continue to stare at her. “We also talked about you that night. About your dreams.”

When I say this, Ruth turns away. “Yes,” she says. “We talked about my dreams.”

“You told me that you planned to become a teacher and that we’d buy a house that was close to both of our parents.”

“Yes.”

“And you said that we would travel. We would visit New York and Boston, maybe even Vienna.”

“Yes,” she says again.

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of an ancient sorrow. “And you told me you wanted children. That more than anything, you wanted to be a mother. You wanted two girls and two boys, because you always wanted a home like that of your cousins, which was busy and noisy all the time. You used to love to visit them because you were always happy there. You wanted this more than anything.”

At this, her shoulders seem to sag and she turns toward me. “Yes,” she whispers, “I admit I wanted these things.”

The words nearly break my heart, and I feel something crumble inside me. The truth is often a terrible thing, and I wish again that I were someone else. But it is too late now, too late to change anything. I am old and alone and I’m dying a little more with each passing hour. I’m tired, more tired than I’ve ever been.

“You should have married another man,” I whisper.

She shakes her head, and in an act of kindness that reminds me of our life together, she inches closer to me. Gently, she traces a finger along my jaw and then kisses the top of my head. “I could never have another,” she says. “And we are done talking about this. You need to rest now. You need to sleep again.”

“No,” I mumble. I try to shake my head but can’t, the agony making it impossible. “I want to stay awake. I want to be with you.”

“Do not worry. I will be here when you wake.”

“But you were gone before.”

“I was not gone. I was here and I will always be here.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She kisses me again before answering. “Because,” she says, her voice tender, “I am always with you, Ira.”

Chapter 6

Luke

Getting out of bed had been painful earlier in the morning, and as he reached up to brush Horse’s neck and withers, he felt his back scream in protest. The ibuprofen had taken some of the pain’s sharp edge away, but he still found it difficult to lift his arm any higher than his shoulder. While he had been checking the cattle at dawn, even turning his head from side to side had made him wince, making him glad that José was there to help around the ranch.

After hanging the brush, he poured some oats in a pail for Horse and then started toward the old farmhouse, knowing that it would take another day or two before he recovered fully. Aches and pains were normal after any ride, and he’d certainly been through worse. It wasn’t a question of if a bull rider got injured, but rather when and how badly. Over the years, not counting his ride on Big Ugly Critter, he’d had his ribs broken twice and his lung collapsed, and he’d torn both his ACL and MCL, one in each knee. He’d shattered his left wrist in 2005, and both his shoulders had been dislocated. Four years ago, he’d ridden in the PBR World Championships—Professional Bull Riders—with a broken ankle, using a special-formed cowboy boot to hold the still-broken bones in place. And of course, he’d sustained his share of concussions from being thrown. For most of his life, however, he’d wanted nothing more than to keep riding.

Like Sophia said, maybe he was crazy.

Peering through the kitchen window above the sink, he saw his mom hurry past. He wondered when things would get back to normal between them. In recent weeks, she’d nearly finished her own breakfast before he showed up, in what was an obvious attempt to avoid talking to him. She was using his presence to demonstrate that she was still upset; she wanted him to feel the weight of her silence as she picked up her plate and left him alone at the table. Most of all, she wanted him to feel guilty. He supposed he could have had breakfast at his own place—he’d built a small house just on the other side of the grove—but he knew from experience that denying her those opportunities would have only made things worse. She’d come around, he knew. Eventually, anyway.

He stepped up on the cracked concrete blocks as he gave the place a quick scan. The roof was good—he’d replaced it a couple of years back—but he needed to get around to painting the place. Unfortunately, he’d have to sand every plank first, almost tripling the amount of time that it would take, time he didn’t have. The farmhouse had been built in the late 1800s, and over the years it had been painted and repainted so many times that the coating was probably thicker than the wood itself. Now, it was peeling pretty much all over and rotting beneath the eaves. Speaking of which, he’d have to get around to fixing those, too.

He entered the small screened-in mudroom and wiped his boots on the mat. The door opened with the usual squeak, and he was struck by the familiar aroma of freshly cooked bacon and fried potatoes. His mom stood over the stove, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. The stove was new—he’d bought that for her for Christmas last year—but the cabinets were original to the house, and the countertop had been around for as long as he could remember. So had the linoleum floor. The oak table, built by his grandfather, had dulled with age; in the far corner, the ancient woodstove was radiating heat. It reminded him that he needed to split some firewood. With cold weather coming, he needed to replenish the stack sooner rather than later. The woodstove warmed not only the kitchen, but the entire house. He decided he’d get to it after breakfast, before Sophia came by.

As he hung his hat on the rack, he noted that his mom appeared tired. No wonder—by the time he’d gotten Horse saddled and ridden out, his mom had already been hard at work cleaning the stalls.

“Morning, Mom,” he said, moving to the sink, keeping his voice neutral. He began scrubbing his hands. “Need some help?”

“It’s just about ready,” she answered without looking up. “But you can put some bread in the toaster. It’s on the counter behind you.”

He dropped the bread slices in the toaster, then poured himself a cup of coffee. His mom kept her back to him, but he could feel her radiating the same aura he’d come to expect in recent weeks. Feel guilty, you bad son. I’m your mother. Don’t you care about my feelings?

Yes, of course I care about your feelings, he thought to himself. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. But he said nothing. After almost a quarter century on the ranch together, they’d become masters in the art of silent conversation.

He took another sip of coffee, listening to the clink of the spatula in the pan.

“No problems this morning,” he said instead. “I checked the stitches on the calf that got caught up in the barbed wire, and she’s doing fine.”

“Good.” Having set aside the spatula, she reached up into the cabinets and pulled down some plates. “Let’s just serve up at the stove, okay?”

He set his coffee cup on the table, then retrieved the jelly and the butter from the refrigerator. By the time he’d served up, his mom was already at the table. He grabbed the toast, handed her one of the pieces, then moved the coffeepot to the table as well.

“We need to get the pumpkins ready this week,” she reminded him, reaching for the pot. No eye contact, no morning hug  . . . not that he’d expected it. “And we’ve got to get the maze set up, too. The hay will be arriving Tuesday. And you have to carve a bunch of pumpkins.”

Half of the pumpkin crop had already been sold to the First Baptist Church in King, but they opened the ranch on the weekends for people to buy the remainder. One of the highlights for the kids—and thus a draw for the adults—was a maze built out of hay bales. His father had sparked to the idea when Luke was young, and over the years the maze had grown increasingly complex. Walking through had become something of a local tradition “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Is the layout still in the desk drawer?”

“Assuming you put it back last year, it should be.” Luke buttered and jellied his toast, neither of them saying anything.

In time, his mother sighed. “You got in late last night,” she said. She reached for the butter and jelly when he was finished with them.

“You were up? I didn’t notice any lights on.”

“I was sleeping. But I woke up just as your truck was pulling in.”

He doubted that was the complete truth. The windows in her bedroom didn’t face the drive, which meant she would have been in the living room. Which also meant she’d been waiting up, worried about him.

“I stayed late with a couple of friends. They talked me into it.”

She kept her focus on her plate. “I figured.”

“Did you get my text?”

“I got it,” she said, adding nothing more. No questions about how the ride went, no questions about how he felt, no concern about the aches and pains she knew he was experiencing. Instead, her aura expanded, filling the room. Heartache and anger dripped from the ceiling, seeped from the walls. He had to admit, she was pretty good at administering the guilt trip.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked.

For the first time, she looked across the table at him. “Not really.”

Okay, he thought. But despite her anger, he still missed talking to her. “Can I ask you a question, then?”

He could practically hear the gears beginning to turn as she readied herself for battle. Ready to leave him alone at the table while she ate on the porch.

“What size shoe do you wear?” he asked. Her fork froze in midair. “My shoe size?”

“Someone might be coming by later,” he said. He shoveled some eggs onto his fork. “And she might need to borrow some boots. If we go riding.”

For the first time in weeks, she couldn’t hide her interest. “Are you talking about a girl?”

He nodded, continuing to eat. “Her name is Sophia. I met her last night. She said she wanted to check out the barn.”

His mom blinked. “Why does she care about the barn?”

“I don’t know. It was her idea.”

“Who is she?” Luke detected a flicker of curiosity in his mother’s expression.

“She’s a senior at Wake Forest. She’s from New Jersey. And if we go riding, she might need boots. That’s why I was asking about your shoe size.”

Her confusion let him know that for the first time in forever, she was thinking about something other than the ranch. Or bull riding. Or the list of things she wanted to finish before the sun went down. But the effect was only temporary, and she concentrated on her plate again. In her own way, she was just as stubborn as he was. “Seven and a half. There’s an old pair in my closet she’s welcome to use. If they fit.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I was going to split some wood before she gets here, unless there’s something else you want me to do.”

“Just the irrigation,” she said. “The second pasture needs some water.”

“I got it going this morning. But I’ll turn it off before she gets here.”

She pushed a pile of eggs around on her plate. “I’m going to need your help next weekend with the customers.”

It was the way she said it that made him realize she’d been planning to bring it up all along, that it was the reason she’d stayed at the table with him. “You know I’m not going to be here on Saturday,” he said deliberately. “I’ll be in Knoxville.”

“To ride again,” she said.

“It’s the last event of the year.”

“Then why go? It’s not like the points are going to matter.” Her voice was starting to acquire a bitter edge.

“It’s not about the points. I don’t want to head into next season feeling unprepared.” Again, the conversation died away, leaving only the sounds of forks against plates. “I won last night,” he remarked.

“Good for you.”

“I’ll put the check in your account on Monday.”

“Keep it,” she snapped. “I don’t want it.”

“And the ranch?”

When she looked at him, he saw less anger than he’d expected. Instead he saw resignation, maybe even sadness, underlined by a weariness that made her look older than she really was. “I don’t care about the ranch,” she said. “I care about my son.”

+++

After breakfast, Luke chopped wood for an hour and a half, replenishing the pile on the side of his mom’s house. Since breakfast, she’d been avoiding him again, and though it bothered him, the simple activity of swinging the ax made him feel better, loosening his muscles and freeing him to think about Sophia.

Already, she had a hold on him—he couldn’t remember the last time that happened. Not since Angie, at least, but even that wasn’t the same. He’d cared about Angie, but he couldn’t remember dwelling on her the way he was on Sophia. Until last night, in fact, he couldn’t even imagine it happening. After his dad died, it took everything he had to concentrate enough to ride at all. When the grief eventually faded to the point where he could go a day or two without thinking about his dad, he poured himself into becoming the best rider he could. During his years on the tour, it had been all he could think about, and with every success, he’d raised the bar, becoming even more intense in his pursuit to win it all.

That kind of commitment didn’t leave a lot of room for relationships, except the short-term, meaningless kind. The past year and a half had changed that. No more travel, no practice, and although there was always something to do on the ranch, he was used to that. Those who succeeded in the business of ranching were good at prioritizing, and he and his mom had a pretty good handle on it. That had given him more time to think, more time to wonder about the future, and for the first time in his life, he sometimes finished his day yearning for someone to talk to over dinner, other than his mom.

While it didn’t dominate his thoughts, he couldn’t deny the urge to try to find someone. The only problem was that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about doing such a thing . . . and now that he was riding again, he’d gotten busy and distracted.

Then, out of the blue and when he’d least expected it, he’d met Sophia. Although he’d spent most of the morning thinking about her and wondering what it would feel like to run his hands through her hair, he suspected it wouldn’t last. They had nothing in common. She was in college—studying art history, of all things—and after graduation, she’d move away to work in a museum in some faraway city. On its face, they had no chance at all, but the image of her sitting in the bed of his truck under the stars kept replaying in his mind, and he found himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that they could somehow make it work.

He reminded himself that they barely knew each other and that he was probably reading too much into it. Nonetheless, he had to admit he was nervous at the prospect of her visit.

After chopping the firewood, he straightened up around the house and rode the Gator out to turn off the irrigation, then made a quick trip to the store to restock the fridge. He wasn’t sure if she’d come inside, but if she did, he wanted to be prepared.

Even as he got into the shower, though, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Lifting his face into the spray, he wondered what on earth had gotten into him.

+++

At a quarter past one, Luke was sitting in a rocker on the front porch of his home when he heard the sound of a car slowly pulling up the long dirt drive, dust rising into the treetops. Dog was at his feet, next to the cowboy boots Luke had found in his mom’s closet. Dog sat up, his ears cocked before glancing at Luke.

“Go get ’em,” he urged, and Dog immediately trotted off. Luke grabbed the boots and stepped off the porch onto the grass. He waved his hat as he approached the main drive, hoping she’d spot him through the shrubbery that lined the drive. Heading straight would lead her to the main farmhouse; to get to his place, she’d need to turn off through an opening in the trees and follow a worn grassy track. It was hard to spot unless you knew where it was, and it would have benefited from some gravel surfacing, but that was yet another item on the to-do list he’d never quite gotten around to. At the time, he hadn’t thought it all that important, but now, with Sophia approaching and his heart beating faster than usual, he wished he had.

Thankfully, Dog knew what to do. He’d run ahead and was standing in the main drive like a sentry until Sophia brought the car to a stop, then he barked authoritatively before trotting back toward Luke. Luke waved his hat again, eventually catching Sophia’s attention, and she turned the car. A moment later, she pulled to a stop beneath a towering magnolia tree.

She stepped out, wearing tight faded jeans that were torn at the knees, looking as fresh as summer itself. With almost catlike eyes and faintly Slavic bone structure, she was even more striking in sunlight than she’d been the night before, and all he could do was stare at her. He had the strange feeling that in the future, whenever he thought about her, this would be the image he recalled. She was too beautiful, too refined and exotic, for this country setting, but when she broke into that wide, friendly smile, he felt something clear inside, like the sun breaking through the mist.

“Sorry I’m late,” she called out as she closed the door, sounding nowhere near as nervous as he felt.

“It’s all right,” he said, replacing his hat and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I made a wrong turn and had to backtrack a bit. But I had a chance to drive around King.”

He shuffled his feet. “And?”

“You were right. It’s not all that fancy, but the people are nice. An old guy on a bench got me headed in the right direction,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he said, finally looking up.

If she could tell how unnerved he was, she gave no sign. “Did you finish all you needed to get done?”

“I checked the cattle, split some firewood, picked up a few things at the store.”

“Sounds exciting,” she said. Shading her eyes, she turned slowly in a circle, surveying her surroundings. By then, Dog had trotted up and introduced himself, twining around her legs. “I take it this is Dog.”

“The one and only.”

She squatted down, scratching behind his ears. His tail thumped in appreciation. “You have a terrible name, Dog,” she whispered, lavishing attention on him. His tail only thumped harder. “It’s beautiful here. Is it all yours?”

“My mom’s. But yes, it’s all part of the ranch.”

“How big is it?”

“A little more than eight hundred acres,” he said.

She frowned. “That means nothing to me, you know. I’m from New Jersey. City girl? Remember?”

He liked the way she said it. “How about this?” he offered. “It starts at the road where you turned in and goes a mile and a half in that direction, ending at the river. The land is shaped kind of like a fan, narrower at the road and getting wider toward the river, where it’s more than two miles wide.”

“That helps,” she said.

“Does it?”

“Not really. How many city blocks is that?”

Her question caught him off guard and she laughed at his expression. “I have no idea.”

“I’m kidding,” she said, rising. “But this is impressive. I’ve never been on a ranch before.” She motioned toward the house behind her. “And this is your house?”

He turned, following her gaze. “I built it a couple of years ago.”

“And when you say you built it . . .”

“I did most of it, except for the plumbing and the electrical. I don’t have a license for those things. But the layout and the framing, that was all me.”

“Of course it was you,” she said. “And I’ll bet that if my car breaks down, you’ll know how to fix that, too.”

He squinted toward her car. “Probably.”

“You’re like . . . old-fashioned. A real man’s man. A lot of guys don’t know how to do that stuff anymore.”

He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or teasing him, but he realized that he liked the way she kept him slightly off balance. Somehow it made her seem older than most of the girls he knew.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

For a moment, it seemed as if she weren’t quite sure what to make of his comment. “I’m glad I’m here, too. Thanks for inviting me.”

He cleared his throat, thinking about that. “I had an idea that maybe I’d show you around the place.”

“On horseback?”

“There’s a nice spot down by the river,” he said, not answering her question directly.

“Is it romantic?”

Luke wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, either. “I like it, I guess,” he said in a faltering voice.

“Good enough for me,” she said, laughing. She pointed toward the boots he was holding. “Am I supposed to wear those?”

“They’re my mom’s. I don’t know if they’ll fit, but they’ll help with the stirrups. I put some socks in there. They’re mine and they’re probably too big, but they’re clean.”

“I trust you,” she said. “If you can fix cars and build houses, I’m sure you know how to run a washer and dryer. Can I try them on?”

He handed them to her and tried not to marvel at the fit of her jeans as she walked to the porch. Dog trailed behind her, his tail wagging and tongue hanging out, as if he’d discovered his new best friend. As soon as she sat, Dog began to nuzzle at her hand again, and he took that as a good sign—Dog wasn’t normally so friendly. From the shade, he watched as Sophia slipped off her flats. She moved with a fluid grace, pulling on the socks and sliding her feet comfortably into the boots. She stood and took a few tentative steps.

“I’ve never worn cowboy boots before,” she said, staring at her feet. “How do they look?”

“You look like you’re wearing boots.”

She gave an easy, rolling laugh, then began pacing the porch, staring again at the boots on her feet. “I guess I do,” she said, and turned to face him. “Do I look like a cowgirl?”

“You’d need a hat for that.”

“Let me try yours on,” she said, holding out her hand.

Luke walked toward her and removed his hat, feeling less in control than he’d felt on the bulls last night. He handed it to her and she slipped it on, tilting it back on her head. “How’s this?”

Perfect, he thought, as perfect as any girl he’d ever seen. He smiled through the sudden dryness in his throat, thinking, I’m in serious trouble.

“Now you look like a cowgirl.”

She grinned, obviously pleased by that. “I think I’ll keep this today. If it’s okay with you.”

“I’ve got plenty,” he said, barely hearing himself. He shuffled his boots again, trying to stay centered. “How was it last night?” he asked. “I’ve been wondering if you had any more trouble.”

She stepped down from the porch. “It was fine. Marcia was right where I’d left her.”

“Did Brian bother you?”

“No,” she answered. “I think he was worried you might still be around. Besides, we didn’t stay long. Only another half hour or so. I was tired.” By then, she’d drawn close to him. “I like the boots and hat. They’re comfortable. I should probably thank your mom. Is she here?”

“No, she’s at the main house. I can tell her later, though.”

“What? You don’t want me to meet her?”

“It’s not that. She’s kind of angry with me this morning.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

Sophia tilted her head up at him. “You said the same thing last night when I asked you why you rode bulls,” she remarked. “I think you say ‘It’s a long story’ when what you really mean is ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Am I right?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She laughed, her face flushing with pleasure. “So what’s next?”

“I guess we can head to the barn,” he said. “You said you wanted to see it.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You know I really didn’t come here to see the barn, right?”

From The Longest Ride by Nicholas Sparks. Copyright © 2013 by Willow Holdings, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc., New York, NY, U.S.A. All rights reserved.