A/N - If you haven't read "Wyoming Christmas" you should. Otherwise, you're gonna be wondering where the whole Vic's Horse theme came from.
Therapeutic riding centers exist all over the country (maybe the world, but I'm not that smart; I don't know) so it's no stretch for me to write about the healing Vic will do while learning to ride. I needed Walt gone for a period of time, but needed it to be for a reason that wouldn't lead to Vic needing/desiring to go with him. So, that ruled out anything law-enforcement related (no conventions, no consulting, etc.). A hunting trip with Omar and Henry sounding like the perfect excuse :-)
I had originally intended to make this a one-shot, but it's turning into a multi-chapter. Enjoy :-)
Rated it T for some language - this is Vic we're talking about!
PS - sorry about the HORRIBLE summary. I HATE summaries - I suck at them. Also, I couldn't decide on the genre so you got friendship/adventure - Vic learning to ride will be both, I promise!
Like The River Running Wild
Chapter 1: Open Mind
Omar's plane taxis down the dirt runway, heavy-laden with guns and rucks and men. Three men to be exact, and twice as many guns; a hunting trip to the mountains requires an excessive amount of testosterone and firepower.
Vic sits in her truck, the heater blowing hard as the single-engine speeds past her and lifts into the cold mountain air. Who the hell goes on a damn bear-hunting trip in the middle of the damn winter, anyway? Men. Men do this kind of shit.
Men do stupid shit like walk around in blizzards and knee-deep snow with guns and call it hunting and survival. But, whatever, if it makes him happy, she thinks with a shiver and a shrug.
Shit, it's cold.
Walt had smiled and said she would be surprised how content she would be with the cabin to herself for a few days. She hadn't thought she needed a break, and still doesn't, but then she got the idea to surprise him and is eager to get started.
Well, sort of eager. And more like 'to get it over with' than 'to get started'. Kind of like the anticipation and anxiety she had right before the academy. Sure, the end would be worth the effort, but her ass was gonna pay for it and that was a less-than-awesome prospect. At least she will be able to limp around the cabin without an audience.
By the time he's home again, maybe she won't be. Maybe it won't be that bad and she'll nail it like she nailed qualifying and her detective's exam. She puts the truck in gear and heads north, the clear Wyoming sky above, the frozen earth beneath and the reality of possible broken bones in front of her.
Sarah Two Feathers is waiting at the big barn of the 4-S; married to Jack Simmons for forty years, Sarah looks like she stepped off the Rez yesterday. Her black and silver hair hangs in neat, matching braids down either shoulder; in a strange sort of mirror-image, they match the dark-tanned moccasin boots covering her legs. If she's wearing an overcoat at all, Vic can't tell.
"Jesus, aren't you freezing?"
Vic is zipped inside the insulated Carhartt coveralls she bought her first Wyoming winter, layered over sub-zero thermals and her heaviest jeans; the down-filled collar of her department coat is pulled up to her ears and she's burying her nose behind the zipper. Still shivering, she might as well be naked, dammit. Being from Philly doesn't matter; Wyoming cold is different. She's said it to Walt a thousand times. It's just freaking colder.
"No. Soon, you won't be either."
"Unless you're gonna teach me to ride this thing in your living room, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be freezing my ass all week."
Sarah smiles and Vic feels petty for a moment. She hasn't even said a proper hello to Walt's friend's wife and she's already bitching.
"I'm sorry. I just really really hate being cold. I appreciate this. So, thank you. I'm Vic Moretti."
"I am Sarah. Sheriff Walt is a friend. He has known much sorrow, but I see the joy has returned to his eyes. My husband and I saw it when he came to buy your horse. We are happy to be a part of something that will bring him happiness."
Vic smiles and nearly spills a tear down her frozen cheek. The compliment is unexpected.
"Well, um, like I told him, and you're about to find out - I can't ride a horse. This is probably a really bad idea."
Sarah Two Feathers smiles again.
"Doing something that is hard, for sake of another, is never a bad idea, Ms. Moretti. You will accomplish what you have set out to do"
"Vic. Please, it's just Vic. And I hope you're right."
The older woman turns into the barn, Vic follows and the two women stop in front a stall half way in. While Walt and Henry and Omar were at the airfield, loading and laughing and leaving, Jack Simmons went to Walt's place to pick up the mare. Ruby had made all the arrangements, at Vic's request; wouldn't have been much of a surprise if Walt had overheard her trying to do it from the cabin.
Jack brought everything she would need, including the saddle Walt had taken her to pick out. She'd been frustrated and short with him, snapping that she didn't know the first thing about saddles and wouldn't know 'the right one' if it had actually bit her in the ass. But he was Walt, and he was patient and quiet and suggested one after another until she finally stabbed her finger at one with a sharp 'fine, this one'.
Seeing it on the rack next to the hitching post in the middle of the barn pulls a catch in her throat. She can be a real piece of work sometimes. Thank God he's in love with her; love breeds forgiveness and she will need a hell of a lot of it in the years to come.
Sarah's voice breaks her thoughts.
"She has been waiting for you."
"Excuse me?"
Vic looks at Sarah with unbridled confusion. After seven years, she still isn't used to the way the Indians talk.
"Your mare. She has been waiting for you."
In the slow motion way a cup tips over, hot coffee or cold milk erupting over the lip and falling like art to the floor, the Philly-accented 'whatever' forms in Vic's throat and begins to roll across her tongue. As the word, with its judgement and disregard, pushes against her pursed lips, she's hit with the memory of a phrase her grandfather used often and loudly.
If you do what you've always done, you'll get the same shit you've always gotten.
Sarcasm. Bravado.
She's tired of the same shit. It's been a less-than existence. Sure, there have been moments of good. Of happy, even. But not enough. And not what she wants anymore. She wants the happy, dammit.
She pushes the 'whatever' back down her throat and looks into her horses eyes.
"Tell me what to do."