By Laurel Clark

Josephine is the name my mother gave me. It’s the name of her late sister’s novels and my great-grandmother’s legacy. Love is infused in each letter, success drips from each syllable. Maybe that’s why my mother always called me Josie.

She died a month ago. Only the ranch and her horses went to me. I packed up and shipped the rest to my sisters before we buried her, before I could replace her things. The ranch feels empty without her; her room rots alone, because I am too scared to face it. My tasks are done alone, and seldom do I leave the property. When I could no longer stand it, she appeared.

Her honey blonde hair shone in the Arizona sun. It’s the first thing that struck me about the woman at my doorstep. She couldn’t have been more than a few years younger than me, but her features did not age as mine had. Her rings were faint, a trace of her experiences. She wasn’t weathered, unlike most in this town.

“I want to learn how to ride a horse.”

She rocked back-and-forth on her boots, a ship at storm. 

“This isn’t an equestrian center. We don’t offer lessons,” I answered instinctively. My mother sometimes repeated these words, when strangers came to sell or socialize. Save for her select friends, I had never seen another person on our land.

“I see you riding sometimes, that mountain in the back of the valley.”

I thought back, trying to call upon a previous image of her. Nothing came to mind. Yet I knew the mountains she was speaking of, and that she had taken note of me there. I crossed my arms in front of me.

“Please, this is my dream.”

The dedication in her voice was perplexing. What a silly thing to dream of. Success, wealth, greed, many more things to wish for, and yet she put her efforts in horse riding. It had been practical to me my entire life, never something to waste dreams on. She intrigued me, I will admit.

#

The stables were off the main road, branching to the right. The woman, Sadie Flores, met me there the next day. She was fidgeting more, but her smile was confident.

“This is beautifully made,” she commented. She wasn’t being deceptive, but still I clammed up.

“I painted it when I was a teenager.”

The stable was dusty blue, daisy elements running along it. It had been 10 years since I was 18; The paint was dirty, and chipping closer to the dirt, where the weeds had grown over. The horses didn’t mind, and my mother couldn’t pretend to care, but Cassidy loved it. Now that my sisters have moved out, only I can appreciate it. I blushed at Sadie’s words.

“Come with me.” I led her to the end of the stable, past horses too young to ride, and those too old.

“These are all yours?”

“Two are. The other four belonged to my mother.”

Sadie nodded. I thought she understood, until she asked, “did she give them to you?”

My body weight shifted back and forth, one foot to another. The dry earth, riddled with mounds and gopher holes, left me unstable.

“In her will, yes. She planned to train these horses before she passed.” The honesty seemed too personal, and I regretted it in a second.

Sadie pushed her braid behind her, fidgeting with her hair. It was the only sign my words had affected her, or even reached her.

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on you.”

It was, I suppose. Mom had a habit of starting projects she couldn’t finish. She would make something her own, then delegate it to one of her three daughters, usually me. She could claim ownership of an output, without creating it. I know she’s patting herself on the back up in heaven, pleased with the progress her horses have made.

“I’m still training two, and the others are retired. You’ll be learning on Anwen,” I told her.

Sadie tailed me to the end of the stable. The strongest horses were in larger stalls. a palomino named Anwen and a thoroughbred named Dakota inhabited them. Dakota was my horse, the first one that belonged to me, my 16th birthday present. I raised her as best I could, from hand feeding to the clay of the desert under her hooves, barreling far past our small town. It wasn’t long before I won a competition, and that prize money became Anwen.

“She’s very gentle,” I offered to Sadie, pointing her to Anwen. She was nervous, but still extended her hand to Anwen. The mare sniffed Sadie’s palm, careful not to disturb this stranger. Anwen had always been intelligent. She was conscious of others emotions, and how she would respond. She was the perfect starter horse.

“My mother seems a lot like yours,” Sadie commented while she pet Anwen’s forehead, scratching the splotch of white between her eyes, “selfish.”

“I wouldn’t call her that,” I insisted.

Sadie shrugged. “I can only speak for mine, or at least how she was the last time I saw her. I don’t speak to her anymore.”

Turning away from her, I pulled Anwen’s saddle from the stable’s fence. Around here, family is everything; leaving that behind is more confusing than anything. My mom was not selfish. She had a way of doing things; that wasn’t something she could change. Still, I felt a rush of pity for Sadie’s situation. No wonder she was so strange.

#

The months passed, stagnant if not for her. Sadie became the only person I saw most days, my only tie to reality. Her progress was rapid. Soon enough, she was asking to go to those mountains.

“Why do you want to go there?”

We had already made half the trip before I thought to ask. Sadie looked over to me, staying steady on Anwen. She tucked her hair under a cowboy hat, far too ornate for the occasion. It was the color of birch, and a stitched flower pattern ran along it. Sadie was ethereal, completely unreal.

“I’m an artist,” she explained, “I’ve painted this landscape countless times. It’ll all look different from up there.”

She hadn’t mentioned her occupation before, but it was fitting for her. Creativity extended the bounds of her mind, flowing out in each word she spoke. Sadie beheld the landscape, taking in all she had dreamed of. so did I.

“Come on, we’re reaching the top.”

The rocky red landscape spanned for miles past the cliff. This was the scene of many trips with Mom, before she got too sick to ride. Cancer was a funny thing, stripping any sense of worth one might have. For once, she had no choice but to credit me with taking care of her. I had a purpose, and I saw it through till the end. Now that she’s gone, I live in the space of her, loneliness creeping into the parts I can’t fill. I have killed her, but am unable to replace her.

“It’s beautiful. More than I could have imagined,” Sadie said. She seemed off in her own head, and I did not push her out of it.

Anwen had taken to her quite quickly; their personalities were complementary. Sadie leaned on the side of the pale horse, looking out into the landscape. She hadn’t brought her tools, but I knew she was itching for them. I promised myself then to take her again soon, whenever she wanted, as much as I could.

Dakota took the trip well, but she needed time to rest. I took a seat next to Sadie, legs drawing into my shell. Sadie glanced at me warmly.

“My mother used to take me here,” I blurted out.

She nodded. After scratching Anwen’s mane, she supplied me with a response, “Is that why you come here so much?”

“Partly. This is where I learned how to ride too,” I paused a moment before adding, “it makes me feel worthy.”

“Worthy?”

I took my time before responding. My throat had carried these words wedged in it for so long. Every time it threatened to come out, I saw the image of my mother. She was a judge, an angel, a devil. Any attempt at communication could not be realized; my thoughts of her were hardly allowed to be formed. Since her passing, I had been choking on them.

“Worthy of living. Of taking up space on earth, I suppose.”

Sadie frowned, taking in the words I had held with me. Her green eyes were foggy like seaglass, staring without seeing. 

“The fact you’re here makes you worthy. Every action changes the landscape, we mold everything we touch. Feeding your horses makes you worthy, or reading a new book, or cooking a good recipe. Besides, you don’t need a purpose to make it a life worth living.”

She wasn’t young, no. Her intelligence spanned past her looks. Even at the time, I suspected she saw her own mother when she spoke those words. She was me, if I had known what to do at that time. If I was stronger. I vowed to learn the lessons she knew all too well.

“I’ve found purpose in teaching you,” I admitted.

“You’ve changed me,” she responded, “That’s an effect on the world. No matter how small.”

#

Laurel Clark is a writer based in Richmond, Virginia. She is originally from the San Francisco Bay Area. Her time is frequently spent writing, researching history, and combining the two.