Can't Hurry Love by Molly O'Keefe

Eli’s mother had left, Mark loaded his son into the truck, and they set off on a two-day trip down to the southern tip of Sonora, the horse trailer dragging behind them.
    After crossing the border, Eli finally gathered up the courage to ask if his mom had left for good. His father’s silence was answer enough, and Eli spent the rest of that first day staring out the window at the sun, burning his retinas so that his tears wouldn’t fall. He had been eight at the time. Eight-year-old boys didn’t cry—his dad had told him that clear enough.
    Once they got to the dusty, hardscrabble pocket of land on the flat edge of the desert, Mark and José Ontegna shook hands and discussed horseflesh.
    Forgotten, Eli dozed in the truck, his hat pulled low over his eyes. It was tough ignoring the hunger making his stomach growl and even tougher to ignore the bitterness that ached in his muscles. Bitterness over his mom. Over the fact that they didn’t have enough money to stop at McDonald’s after the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Mark had made were gone, but they had money for horses.
    When the passenger-side door was jerked open, Eli fellout, barely managing to catch himself against the door before meeting the hard red dust.
    “What’s going on?” He squinted up at Mark.
    His father’s face was different. Not angry or sad, but blank. Like extra skin had grown up around his eyes and mouth, armor against showing emotion. He wasn’t going to smile. Or cry. Ever again.
    “Come on out here. We’re gonna break these ponies before we put ’em in the trailer.”
    The thick, sturdy Criollos stirred in the paddock as if they’d heard Mark’s words and started running the edges of the pen, their manes and tails black banners behind them.
    Eli had watched his father break dozens of horses over the years and he stepped up to the split wood of the fence, climbing to the top rung, where he planned on watching.
    But Mark put a hand in the collar of his denim jacket. “Come on,” he said.
    “Me? You want me to break them?”
    “That one.” Mark pointed to the only mare of the three in the paddock. “You’re big enough.”
    Fear and excitement made his spit sour, his mouth a dry cave. That horse was huge and his body felt so small.
    “Dad—”
    “You a coward?”
    This version of his dad wasn’t totally unfamiliar—he usually showed up after fights with his mom—but that blankness on his face was terrifying, and Eli knew he couldn’t admit he was scared. He couldn’t say he was only eight and that his dad was acting crazy.
    The tough Mexican vaqueros lined the paddock, shaking their heads, but Dad ignored them.
    “You don’t leave because something’s hard, Eli. You don’t get to walk away just because you’re unhappy.”
    That day, getting the beating of his life from a strawberrymare, Eli was given the first taste of what the next twenty years of his life would be like as a substitute for his mother.
    His dad wasn’t abusive, but he was cold and unforgiving. The crimes he couldn’t pardon weren’t even Eli’s—they were Eli’s mother’s.
    And happiness, starting that weekend, became a rumor. A ghost. A bedtime story other kids were read.
    It wasn’t as if he was happier after getting fired by Victoria. But a week later, after the sting and the shock wore off and the shame was something he was used to, he did feel lighter. He could stand up straight without the weight of a hundred-year-old grudge on his back.
    He owned his house and the ten acres of land around it. He had a barn full of strong, good-looking horses with excellent pedigrees and he still had money in the bank.
    This was more than he’d had his entire life. He felt rich with possessions and purpose.
    And for the first time in his adult life he could focus on the now. And the now was a lot of work. The now kept him pretty busy.
    Sitting up on the roof of his barn, Eli took another nail out from between his lips and hammered in the last of the