Chapter 10
Noah
I can’t believe I agreed to this.
Colton is standing not far off, talking to one of the judges that was pulled together for the town’s first Shoein’ in over twenty-six years. According to custom, five judges have been assigned from the board after Colton notified them of the… friendly competition we agreed to and got permission to hold the event in the town center. Also custom.
And the judges aren’t the only ones here.
It looks as if half of Darling showed up for this spectacle, many having brought camp chairs, others set up on picnic blankets or sitting in the grass. Someone apparently got a permit to sell popcorn because bags of it are making the rounds. Salted popcorn, caramel corn, even flavors like apple pie and peanut brittle.
Why the fuck did I agree to this?
My uncle looks more amused than anything as I help him into his own foldable chair that we brought from home. “Big crowd,” he comments, shifting to adjust his position.
I grunt my acknowledgement.
“Nervous?” he asks.
“Please.”
He snorts. “You know this is just for fun, right? No one takes these things all that seriously.”
Tell that to Colton Darling.
I glance back at the man, who’s bouncing on the soles of his feet now, looking as if he’s getting a pep talk from the entire Darling family. All of his brothers are here. His parents, too.
If I ever needed more proof of our differences, I’d only need set foot inside the Darling Ranch to see it for myself.
Before I can turn away, Remington meets my eye from across the park. He gives me a smile and a nod.
I nod back before checking in with my uncle. “Comfortable enough?”
“It’ll do,” he says, which is the best I can hope for. Comfortable doesn’t come easy for him these days.
“This shouldn’t take long,” I assure him.
He chuckles. “Get me a bag of caramel corn?”
I nod and head off to find the vendor. I’m paying for the bag when I hear the last person I want to talk to right now. Or anytime, really.
“Ready to lose?” Colton asks, stepping up beside me.
I glance over at him. At the cocky assurance in his blue eyes and the rough stubble covering his jaw. Against my permission, my memory dredges up the feeling of that stubble against my lips, and I quickly avert my gaze, not needing the reminder of that mistake.
“The only thing I’ll be losing is the chance to book more ink,” I say, voice tight.
Colton scoffs. “Dream on, King.”
“Oh, I’m sure my dreams will be sweet tonight. I’ll have your defeated face to recall as I’m drifting off to sleep.”
“Look at that,” he says wryly. “You have a sense of humor after all. Who knew?”
I turn away before the impulse to smack the man becomes too strong to ignore.
“Judges need to go over the rules with us,” Colton says before I can get far.
“Be there in a minute,” I grit out.
I hand off the caramel corn to my uncle and take a moment to collect myself. It’s not that I’m worried about losing this competition. I have it in the bag.
It’s the fact that Colton goddamn Darling has the singular ability to make me unreasonably angry anytime he opens his mouth. Hell, all he has to do is look at me, and I want to clock him.
I’m not a violent guy. Not usually.
But fuck , he brings it out in me.
Once I’m fairly confident I won’t give the man a black eye, I head over to the judges’ table. Colton is already there, waiting. He gives me a smirk I ignore.
“Gentlemen,” Kamal Yadav says, a man in his sixties who’s been on the board as long as I can remember. Pretty sure he stopped by my uncle’s with a cranberry tart when I first got to town, although that time right after my parents passed is somewhat muddled in my mind. “I’ll be going over scoring so we’re all clear on the parameters of today’s competition.”
Colton and I both nod, and he goes on.
“Timeliness only accounts for a quarter of your total. So getting done first shouldn’t be your main objective. Another quarter goes to cleanliness and evenness of the trim. Another quarter to proper shoe shaping. And the final quarter for overall aesthetics. Got it?”
We nod again.
“We have two horses offered up by a local for today’s Shoein’. Neither horse has been worked on by either of you in the past, so we’re on neutral ground here. Both are five weeks from their last shod, so again, even turf. You remove their shoes. Trim and outfit them with a new set from the ready-made stock provided. Once you’re done, we’ll judge your work. Any questions?”
Colton meets my eye briefly before shaking his head. “Nope.”
“All good,” I say.
Mr. Yadav nods. “All right then. Let’s get this Shoein’ started. Take your places and we’ll bring out the horses. Oh, and boys?” He pauses, gracing us with a smile. “Have fun.”
Colton and I turn in tandem, heading over to the area set up for us. I can feel the man’s glare on the side of my head, and when I continue to ignore it, Colton huffs.
As Colton checks the tools in his bag—we each brought our own—I tug off my jacket. I toss it aside before turning back, finding Colton’s gaze wandering down my exposed arms before he quickly looks away.
The creak of the horse trailer door pulls our attention. The animals are led out one at a time, both Quarter Horses, both seeming nonplussed by the crowd and the steady stream of noise and chatter. I eye the one brought my way, holding out my hand as soon as she’s close enough. She gives me a huffing sniff as the attendant ties her lead to a pole.
“Hey, girl,” I say softly, running my hand up her nose. “You and me today, all right?”
Her big eyes watch me calmly.
Testing the waters, I glide my hand over her flank and down her leg, giving it a tug. She lifts her foot easily—a great sign—and I let her go, rubbing her neck.
We’re given just a minute to get acquainted with our horses, and then Mr. Yadav introduces us to the crowd with a short speech about the history of the Darling Shoein’. It’s warming up enough that I’m grateful I put on a t-shirt today and not something heavier. The folks gathered listen raptly, the excitement in the air palpable.
It’s been a long time since our townsfolk have seen this. Many of them, myself included, never have.
When Mr. Yadav draws to a close, he waves Colton and me in.
“All right, gentlemen. Let’s shake on it, and then we’ll begin.”
Colton’s grip is tight when my hand meets his. He tries his best to crush the bones in my fingers. And, honestly, I do the same. Our eyes hold. Neither of us gives ground. Icy, icy blue stares back at me.
The word is given, and we let go. It’s on.
I don’t hear the crowd as I race to my horse. Don’t even notice Colton. I focus on my work, settling into the familiar rhythm with a single-minded focus. Luckily, my horse doesn’t put up a single fuss as I make quick work of pulling off her shoes, but I position myself carefully each time nonetheless should she decide to twist away. Before tossing the shoes to the side, I check the shape of each, committing the unique curves to memory.
Trimming her hooves is a swift process. They’re in good condition, just needing the sort of routine clip I could do in my sleep. I’m careful not to take too much dead sole off, since the depth is already shallower than I’d prefer. Once her hooves are as clean and even as they’ll get, I rush to the box of ready-made horseshoes.
An anvil is set up for shaping, and I make quick work of it. A handful of hammer strikes to each curve of metal creates the shape I need. I grab a box of nails afterward and head back. After checking each shoe against her hoof, I hammer them into place, only needing to go back to the anvil once for a correction. I’m feeling rather proud of myself when I hear a swell from the crowd.
I glance over, finding Colton’s horse nearly finished. He’s down to rasping the outsides of her hooves.
Fuck .
It’s a race against time—and the man beside me—to crimp my nails and finish. My pulse is galloping away, the cheering from the crowd muddled in with the sound of my own breaths.
I’m so close. So close.
I don’t make it in time.
From the corner of my eye, I see Colton set down his rasp and stand. He steps away from his horse, hands in the air as he calls out, “Done.”
There’s enthusiastic clapping and hooting from the crowd, and I curse inside my own head, slowing right the fuck down. I wanted to finish first, of course, but now that Colton won in speed, I need to be strategic. I can’t gain those points back, but I can still beat him in overall aesthetics.
I take my time smoothing the outside of each hoof and adding a perfect hem along the edge of the shoes. My pulse steadies as I work, and I tune out the noise of the crowd.
As well as the eyes of my competition.
Knowing I’ve done all I can with brute force, I pull out the only thing that might put me ahead. The polish.
“What the fuck?” Colton says in shock. “What are you doing? That’s not…that’s not necessary.”
“No interference,” one of the judges calls as Colton takes a step my way.
He steps right back, growling low in his throat.
I look over and give the man a slow wink, rather enjoying the way he bristles in response. “All’s fair in war, little Colt.”
Colton’s face settles into that scowl I’m so familiar with, his blue eyes promising retribution. With a muttered profanity, he starts to pace, his hands raking through his too-long hair.
I put the man out of my mind, proceeding to polish my horse’s hooves until they’re gleaming and show-ready.
Once done, I stand up and set down my things. “Done,” I announce.
There’s renewed clapping from the crowd, some shouted encouragement. Colton and I wait on the sidelines as the judges get out of their seats and approach.
“That was fucking dirty,” he hisses to me, his arms crossed in front of him, his gaze not on me but the judges.
“It was perfectly within the rules,” I say calmly. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it.”
He scoffs. “Bet your shoe work is shoddy.”
“It’s not,” I assure him.
“God, I hate you so much.”
I nearly snort. What’s new?
The judges head back to their table to mark their scores, and Colton starts pacing again. Remington catches up to him before long, slowing his brother down and giving his arm a squeeze. They exchange a few words, Colton’s movements jerky and agitated, Remington’s calm, before Colton nods.
I go wait by Walter.
“Nice job, kid,” he says as I approach.
I shrug. “He was quicker.”
“Eh,” my uncle says, waving his hand through the air. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
I don’t know about that, but I do know I did everything I could to present a perfect shoeing. Losing a quarter of the available points to Colton’s quick handling is going to hurt, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
When the judges wave us over to stand in front of our horses, the gathered crowd hushes.
“Timeliness,” Mr. Yadav calls out.
The judges hold up their indicators, a blue card for me, a red for Colton.
There are five red.
I hold in my groan, having known it was coming. Even so, it doesn’t feel good watching a tally of five added to the board below Colton’s name.
“Yes, Colt!” someone shouts. One of his brothers, I think.
Colton rubs his hands together, rocking on the balls of his feet as Mr. Yadav caps his marker. The crowd quiets again.
“Hoof trim,” the head judge calls out.
Another round of cards are held in the air. My eyes sweep over them quickly. Three blue and two red. Three blue .
I ease out a breath as Mr. Yadav adjusts our totals. Colton at seven. Me at three.
“God, I’m gonna throw up,” Colton mutters.
I know the feeling .
Mr. Yadav holds his hand for quiet again. “Shoe technique.”
Five more cards rise in the air. Three blue again and two red. Holy shit . Colton is at nine. I’m at six.
I could win this. If I get all five for aesthetics, I’ll win this.
Colton seems to have come to the same conclusion as me, his hands on his knees as he mutters words too quietly for me to hear.
“Overall aesthetic,” Mr. Yadav calls.
I swear you could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. The judges grab their cards and hold them up. There’s a beat where it feels like time stalls.
And then I see it.
Five blue.
A roar goes up in the crowd, the sound a match for the beat of my heart. I glance over at Colton, unable to help myself. He looks…shocked. Absolutely stunned. And for the briefest of moments, I feel… sympathy .
I hear my uncle whistling as a few people come over, slapping my shoulder, congratulating me. But I can’t look away from my rival. From that expression plastered on his face.
I thought victory would taste oh so sweet after all these years with this man at my throat, trying his best to dig in. I wanted to put him in his place. Wanted to prove I was the better farrier.
Instead?
All I feel in lieu of the victory I was expecting is a sting I wasn’t prepared for in the least.
Fuck .