Chapter Text
Catapult had an obsidian coat and a white star on his forehead. He was smaller than all the other horses on the ranch, but Andrew preferred his petite agile pony to the bulkier steeds at Foxhole Acres. Wymack had paired the two of them together a month after Andrew had first arrived.
Catapult had been an impossible ride, bucking off all contenders who attempted to reign him in. Wymack wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the horse; they couldn’t use him for any work around the ranch with his attitude and he wasn’t safe enough to be a lesson horse for Abby’s lesson program.
That is until he saw Andrew working with the gelding after dinner one evening.
Andrew had stripped away the heavy bridle and saddle and swapped it for a lighter synthetic type, and switched the harsh and uncomfortable looking bit for a gentler style. Andrew had Catapult on the lunge line, working him in a wide circle, the horse threw a few spare crow hops before settling into a smooth rhythm. Then he repeated the process with the horse going the other direction, Catapult threw his head a bit in complaint, before settling in on the bit.
When Andrew had mounted, Catapult tried to buck him off with his usual rabid fervor, but Andrew had been expecting this behavior by now and he sank his weight into his heels for balance and let Catapult writhe and dance across the arena, attempting to jettison Andrew from his back.
Eventually, the horse tired himself out and seemed to catch on to the fact that Andrew wasn’t going to be thrown any time soon, but it wasn’t until Andrew started using gentle, almost imperceptible cues, that Catapult understood.
Andrew wasn’t going to tear at his mouth with the reigns. He’d barely lifted them while the horse had been hopping around but to hold his head somewhat steady. He’d been depending more upon the movement of his seat bones, and the position of his thighs and lower legs, to disrupt and redirect Catapult’s direction with his own body weight.
Wymack hadn’t seen a horse’s countenance change so quickly before, but he swore he could see the smile in the black steed’s eyes.
Andrew was notified of Catapult being permanently assigned as his ranching mount the next morning at breakfast.
∆
“There’s a new kid comin’ up to the ranch today and I want you to show him around. He’ll be bunking in the common house next door to your room anyways, you might as well get to know each other now.” Wymack said at breakfast with a mug of coffee in one hand and his smartphone in the other. He was pretending to check his email.
Andrew scowled around his ill-timed mouthful of oatmeal and chewed while attempting not to resemble a baby gargoyle.
“No thanks,” he said at length.
“I appreciate how open you are with your feelings, but this isn’t up for debate,” Wymack said without looking up from his phone, now he really was checking his email and Andrew wondered when exactly he had lost his intimidation factor with the head rancher.
“His uncle is dropping him off around eleven,” Wymack got up to wash out his mug.
Andrew dumped another heaping tablespoon of brown sugar into his hot cereal and shoveled in a large mouthful before taking a big gulp of his milky-brown hot coffee.
“What is it this time? Another brat from the big city with a penchant for puking and a rich family? Speaking of which, Allison is not going to be finished with the side stoop on the east barn in time,” Andrew said.
“You know pasts are private here until freely offered,” Wymack reminded him in a stern voice and Andrew didn’t fight his eye roll, “I know you haven’t forgotten that,” Wymack pointed a finger at him before turning back to wash dishes in the sink and mumbling about a dishwasher.
“And I wouldn’t count Allison out just yet, she’ll figure it out,” Wymack said as he came back to the table.
“Or Dan will secretly help her this time,” Andrew said with a waggle of his fingers at the word, ‘secretly.’
Wymack squinted at Andrew in thought and Andrew sipped his coffee.
“Don’t do that thing, wherein you try and distract me,” Wymack said with a wave of his palm.
“I was doing more than trying,” Andrew said and Wymack huffed out an irritated groan.
∆
The navy blue Rolls Royce shot along the winding road up to Foxhole Acres’ main office and caught Andrew’s attention as he leaned backwards in a bright pink fold-out camp chair and sucked on a cigarette between his lips. The car maneuvered as if driven by a coked out Earnhardt Jr.
It slid into a stop, spraying dust and gravel every which way. When the driver climbed out he was mid yell, “—is not a good idea, Nat! There’s bad blood in that house and I won’t have you losin’ your mind on us, not when we just got you back, I won’t have it!”
The passenger, Nat, wrenched the door wide open and slid out into the dust and haze that the car had thrown up, “I don’t remember asking for your permission to live inside my own goddamn house, Uncle Stuart,” he spat. He pulled a pack of Marlb 27’s from his hoodie pocket and plucked out a stick.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” his Uncle Stuart snapped with a scowl.
Nat gave Stuart a scathing look before his face shifted into a sly smile and he shook the pack at his uncle with a quirked eyebrow.
“Alright, yes,” Stuart sighed and his shoulder slumped. He accepted the proffered pack, had a lit stick in his mouth, and was offering his nephew the lighter when Andrew let the front legs of his fold out chair slam to the ground.
Two heads swiveled around.
“The fuck?” said the uncle.
Andrew slid his sunglasses down his face, “Welcome to Foxhole Acres,” he drawled in his best customer service voice, which was not very good at all.
Stuart scrunched up his nose in reaction but the nephew stepped forward to get a clearer look at Andrew and, guessing by his expression, he wasn’t impressed.
“Who are you? We were told we’d be meeting David Wymack, head of the ranch, at least a decade older than you,” Nat held in an exaggerated smug laugh, “and at least a solid foot taller, too.”
Short jokes. Wymack was going to find himself sleeping beneath a cold bed of dirt with a fresh tombstone and flowers planted over his head one of these days.
Andrew exhaled around his cigarette and sent a dull stare towards the nephew. Nat stepped further forward and now Andrew could see that he had fiery auburn hair and piercing ice-blue eyes underneath the black hood of his sweatshirt.
Andrew’s brain automatically supplied him with a name, the face having graced the cover of all mainstream news lately, and his brows rose, though they were hidden from the newcomers behind his donned pair of black Ray Bans.
“Oi, don’t be a prat.” Stuart said. He slid his Zippo into his suit pocket and shook out his arm to check his watch. Andrew calculated that he could afford a Bachelor’s Degree from the local state university if he hawked it.
Andrew turned and got up, walking into the office. There was a beat of silence before he heard footsteps in the gravel after him.