Gwen hits the racetrack going miles per minute, heartbeat pounding, the rush of the crowd in her ears and the clatter of hooves underneath her. She has this in the bag. Her horse is strong and steady, their minds both set on the same goal, the same intake of breath and ripple of muscle. Seconds to go, nearing the finish line, a red white blur of excitement as star pulls into the lead and – the blaring of the alarm clock on her cell phone, the only useful tool it's provided this far out of service range. She opens her eyes.
And then: awake. There's no use for idleness in a moment of her life, it's up out of bed as soon as her brain kicks into gear and down into the kitchen as soon as she can brush her hair up into a ponytail and smudge on some liner and gloss. Duke opens the Inn early; there are hardly ever any staying customers, but they get a good flow of people going around meals – and breakfast is no exception.
Some days Gwen misses the city. She misses the conveniences and the hard, confident feel of the walkways and buildings – how everyone seemed to have some place to go and some drive to be there. She misses the fast-paced walking and talking, the bright yellow taxis with their loud advertisements splashed across the body and the cell phones beeping from every single purse and back pocket.
Out here, there's phones coiled into wall jacks, and a slow pace to life that has her nerves jumping underneath her skin in anticipation for something more. But there are horses. And there is a job that keeps her well fed and sheltered, and there is her grandfather. This is his home, and this is where she cradles the best days of her childhood: summers spent watching him magic furniture out of old logs, toys out of scraps, distractions out of the mess that was her parent's divorce.
And there are the horses, oh god, the horses. No more driving, she thinks, smiling as she pulls a skillet out from underneath the counter. No more long rides an hour and half or more to that horse farm marketing flashy breeds to rich older folk. Here, there's honest to goodness farms with all the livestock you could care to own, and people who live and breathe horses as much as she does. Sometimes she spends her days off eyeing Cliffguard, wondering how long she'd have to persuade Blue before he'd let her on him.
Bob promises her as soon as they get the new herd, she'll be the first one to get her hand on a lead. Bob promises a lot. He started stopping by the inn the day after she began working there, and she's never thought to ask if he came along before or if this is a new occurrence – she enjoys the company, he's sweet and steady and carefully counts out a tip from the mess of coins he keeps in his pocket every afternoon, before he leaves for his second shift at the ranch. He's a customer so regularly that she's begun waiting for the sound of his work boots before she really gets into her cooking.
Once he's there, it's all hearty food with extra helpings of sauce and grease. But breakfast is a low-key affair, and sometimes it's just her and duke and the dog all eating together at one table with one eye on the front door. "Morning," he says now, from the entryway between the kitchen and main room. "Best way to start the day, a full stomach!"
It's the same greeting every morning. There's a certain monotony around here that gets into your veins, either drugging you into submission or curdling your blood until you want to run, screaming, out into the countryside. Gwen's not sure which reaction is happening in her body. She calls an agreement back to duke, and gets the pan ready, knowing that Ellen will be by with some fresh eggs within the minute.
Monotony, but it's a toss-up. As Ellen steps in with the eggs and greets duke the same as always, Gwen feels the first twinges of a laugh bubbling up in her gut, and the softening of her shoulders as she stands relaxed. Maybe, she figures, the monotony won't be all bad.
And Bob, she reminds herself with the laugh on her lips, has promised her horses.