Author's Note: This is an idea I've been playing around with for a while now, but I finally got around to posting it. Your Beautiful Soul is not finished yet (as of October 27, 2004), but there will be at least two more chapters to make an even 20. I'm working on chapter 19 right now, but I'm still having difficulties with how I want to end it. I'm sorry, but I don't know how soon I will be able to update either of these. Yep, so, Please R&R to let me know what you think about this one…thanks! I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Summerland, nor do I own any related characters or places. The characters you don't know are most likely original characters, therefore they are mine. I also own the plot.

Longing to Know

Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, sleepy head!"

Bradin groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, burying his head under his pillow.

"Get up!" Johnny insisted, pulling the covers off Bradin, exposing him to the cool morning air of the house.

"Fine," Bradin grumbled. "I'm up—I'm up." After pulling on some clothes, he stumbled down the stairs to the main floor, eyes still half-closed and blurry.

"Breakfast?" Johnny asked from the kitchen.

Bradin sat down at the kitchen island and stared down at the plate that was set in front of him. He picked up a fork and prodded at the sausages that Johnny had managed to—well, do something with—in the microwave. "What time is it?" Bradin yawned unhappily, pushing the grayish-brown cylindrical so-called 'sausages' away untouched.

"5:37."

"In the morning?" Bradin's eyes widened fully. "Since when was that part of the agreement?"

"You were the one who wanted to earn money for a car," Johnny finished down his breakfast with a swig of orange juice straight from the container. "And speaking of cars—time to load up if you want to be there before six."

"And why would I want to be there before six?" Bradin glared at his housemate.

"Because that's when your job starts." Johnny gave him a you-didn't-know-that-already look.

Piling slowly into Johnny's black Cadillac Escalade, Bradin pondered his new job. He had no idea, as of yet, what exactly it was, other than Johnny had said he'd be working for a client of the real-estate agency and that he'd be out in the fresh air. When Bradin had first expressed interest in a second job to earn money for a car, he had naturally thought something like life-guarding at one of the local pools or picking trash up off school grounds like Callie had done a few weeks earlier.

The thought of Callie saddened him. She had left two days previously for the Bahamas on a last vacation of the summer and she wouldn't be back until the day before school started. He could see her in her favorite white bikini on the pristine sands of whatever private beach it was, surfing in the clear blue waters, or maybe just sunbathing on a towel. Either way, he missed her like crazy. He and Callie had just become a couple a week or two before, and they had spent almost every waking minute together before she left. She'd promised to email when she got a chance, but so far, he'd only gotten one that simply said:

Hi Bradin! We're here! My dad got stopped going through security in Dallas, but it was just a false alarm. Everything else was fine. Going to the beach now with my cousins and their friends who own the beach house. Love you! Callie

"Here we are," Johnny said, cutting into Bradin's thoughts. "Meyer Stables."

"A barn?" Bradin asked wearily.

"Yeah. You said you wanted a decent-paying job, and this one opened up."

"I didn't mean shoveling horse sh—" he was cut off as an older man of about 60, wearing a worn pair of jeans, a green T-shirt, and a straw cowboy hat stepped up to the SUV.

"Jerry, how's it going?" Johnny asked the man, getting out of the car and shaking his hand.

"Can't complain." The old man smiled, then nodded toward Bradin. "This the new one?"

"Yeah." Johnny motioned for Bradin to come around the car. "This is Bradin Westerly, Ava's nephew. Bradin, this is Jeremiah Mably."

"I answer to Jerry too," the old man laughed, shaking Bradin's hand warmly. "Nice to meet you Bradin."

"Oh, look at the time," Johnny glanced down at his watch. "I've gotta get to the office. Don't be afraid to work him hard, Jerry."

"No problem, got the bullwhip all primed and ready," Jerry grinned as Johnny started his car. He held up his hand as the vehicle rolled away and turned onto the street. "Come on, let's get you set up." Jerry headed for the barn. "That's Harley over there on the tractor. She works here, too. 'Bout your age, I guess."

Bradin looked in the direction Jerry was pointing. A slim figure bounced along on the seat of a green and yellow John Deere tractor—towing a circular plowing device—as it circled inside the fenced outdoor arena. He turned quickly to follow Jerry into the cool air of the barn. Quick work was made of getting him set up with a gray Rubbermaid manure cart, a pitchfork rake, and a shovel; and he was put to work almost immediately.

About twenty minutes later, Bradin thought he might actually have gotten the hang of it: rake the wet shavings and manure to the middle, shovel it out into the cart, rake the leftover shavings out of the corners, haul the dirty out to the compost pile, load clean shavings into the cart, empty the new shavings into the stall, and spread them around. It was that simple.

"Who's the new guy?" a girl's voice echoed down the aisle.

"Bradin Westerly," Jerry informed her. "Johnny Durant's housemate's nephew."

Bradin set his shovel against the side of the stall and pushed his cart out toward the entrance.

"A surfer?"

Bradin saw the voice belonged to the girl named Harley.

"Yup."

"You hired a surfer?"

"He's your punk, Har," Jerry grinned.

"Funny," she glowered at him. "Very, very funny. Hold on, I've got a cramp from not laughing."

Bradin wheeled the manure cart across the yard, dumped it on the compost pile and filled the cart up with clean shavings. Entering the barn again, the aisle was deserted. He emptied the shavings in the stall and slowly spread them around.

Callie. The thought of her overwhelmed him momentarily. He wondered what she was doing now. He longed to hear her cheerful voice again, even if it was on the phone.

"No slacking on the job, surfer boy."

Bradin's head snapped up, and he realized he'd been leaning on his rake, daydreaming of Callie. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"You don't have all day—they expect us to be done by 11:30," she said, her voice completely void of feeling.

Bradin didn't respond, but finished laying the shavings quickly and moved on to the next stall. He paused, discreetly taking in the view of Harley through a small space in the wall. Standing at an open door a few stalls down, she stroked the nose of a cream-colored horse. She wore a maroon tank top tucked into faded, dirty, blue jeans and a black hand-tooled leather belt encircled her waist, held together in front with a mid-sized belt buckle. The buckle was an engraved silver background, encircled by a gold-plated rope; three gold horse-heads stood out from the silver and a small gold strip stretched across the bottom. Her raven black hair was pulled back in a loose French braid that hung down to a few inches above her belt, and her skin was a deep bronze. Bradin hurriedly turned back to his work as she moved away from the stall.

Four hours later, Bradin pushed the cart back into the empty stall they were stored in and propped his tools against the wall. Looking down at his hands, he winced. He could feel the blisters starting to form between his thumbs and forefingers, a tingling sensation that he'd felt before on numerous occasions.

"Blisters?"

He raised his eyes to meet Harley's and was surprised by their deep ebony darkness. "Uh, yeah. Sorta."

"I think we've got some moleskin in the office." Harley turned and walked down the aisle, and Bradin followed, watching her easy gait as she moved before him. She opened the door under the sign stating Meyer Stables Office and waited for him to step through before closing the door behind them.

She motioned for him to take a seat behind the oak desk and he did, watching her rummage through the First-Aid kit. Pulling out a small yellow and blue box, she smiled triumphantly and held it up. "You need a pair of good gloves," Harley said as she expertly cut small strips of moleskin and stuck it where he said he felt the blisters coming in.

"Here." She stood, tossed a pair of deerskin gloves into his lap, put the box back in the kit, and then turned to exit.

"Where you going?" he asked.

"Well, it's almost eleven and Jenny Almes' personal nanny will be bringing her for her riding lesson soon. They pay me to groom and saddle her horse."

"I used to live in Kansas." He then added, "I grew up around horses." It wasn't a complete lie—there were horses back in Kansas, and he had met some on a few occasions. But he didn't understand why he'd lied about it. Why did he want to please her so badly? She wasn't Callie, and she was incredibly different from any of the girls he'd dated—even back in Kansas. He'd never gone for the 'cowgirl' type. Though there had been several at his old school, he'd never been attracted to them, and he'd even had friends who made fun of the redneck types.

"Oh, good," Harley smiled. "That means I can light out early, and you can take care of the horse. All the tack and grooming stuff is down by the cross-ties."

Bradin watched her walk away. Moving down to the cross-ties, he surveyed the tack. What kind of mess had he gotten himself into? He picked up a brush—at least he knew how to do that—and moved to stand next to the short gray pony and started to work slowly. A few minutes later, he stopped to contemplate the tack again.

"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" Harley asked, stepping around the corner.

"No." Then realizing a way to redeem himself, he said, "My sister leased a horse for a few years and I had to take care of it for two weeks when she was away at camp, but I only tacked it up in the Western stuff."

"Ah," she smiled. "But you still have no idea what you're doing."

Bradin sighed. "No. What gave it away?"

"The white shoes."

He looked down. His Nike Airs had been white that morning. Now they had a green tinge and were covered in dust.

"Well, first, you'd put on the saddle pad." Harley flipped the white pad over the pony's back, then carefully set the small brown English saddle on top of it, explaining what to do with each step. Then, she slid the martingale around the pony's neck and attached it to the girth. Next came the bridle, and after removing the halter, she easily slid the snaffle bit between his teeth and pulled the headstall over his ears. She then led the pony out to the arena.

"Hi Harley!" a little redheaded girl in perfect English garb greeted her as she led the pony to the mounting block. She gave the pony a pat on the nose, "Hi Beauty!"

"How's it goin' Jenny?" Harley asked, pulling the reins over the pony's ears.

"Good."

"Have fun," Harley smiled, sending them off with the riding instructor. Then, to Bradin, "I am out of here. Later Surfer Boy."