8. A Break From Horse Shit
A Break From Horse Shit
Reid
T he morning sun beat down on my neck as I made my way toward the goat enclosure, Walter zipped securely into the baby carrier strapped to my chest. His tiny head swiveled back and forth, taking in the ranch’s morning activities with all the intensity a five-pound chihuahua could muster.
“We’ve got a big day ahead, buddy. Goats, chickens, and whatever else decides to fall apart around here.”
The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves behind me announced Debra’s presence before I even needed to look. The donkey had been following me since dawn, maintaining exactly seven paces behind me no matter how I varied my speed.
I glanced back at her. “You planning on helping today, or just supervising?”
Debra’s ears twitched, her eyes fixed on me with an unsettling intensity that made everyone else on the ranch give her a wide berth. Everyone except me.
“Didn’t think so.” I turned back to the path, fighting the smile that threatened to break across my face.
The goat enclosure came into view, and I immediately noticed the gate standing slightly ajar. A familiar sense of doom settled in my stomach.
“Butters,” I muttered under my breath.
Walter yipped in agreement, his tiny body vibrating with excitement.
I approached the gate, counting the goats inside. Maple lounged in the shade, Pancake nestled against her side. Jack and Chip stood at opposite corners of the pen, each pretending the other didn’t exist after yesterday’s headbutting contest that had nearly taken out both of them.
No Butters.
“Every damn day.” I secured the gate and scanned the property. “Where’d the old fool get to this time?”
The sound of indignant squawking from the direction of the chicken coop answered my question. I jogged toward the noise, Debra picking up her pace behind me.
The scene at the chicken coop stopped me in my tracks.
Butters stood in the middle of scattered feed, looking enormously pleased with himself as a flurry of feathers and chicken panic erupted around him.
And in the center of it all, standing atop the small feed shed with her wings extended like she was about to take flight, was Eggatha, the world’s most delusional chicken.
She fixed me with one beady eye, chest puffed out, making a noise that sounded kind of like a whinny.
I watching as she pawed at the shed roof with one foot. “You are not a horse.”
Eggatha disagreed, apparently, as she let out another imitation whinny and flapped her wings dramatically.
Walter barked encouragingly, which only seemed to bolster Eggatha’s confidence. She strutted along the edge of the roof like it was a stage, while Butters bleated excitedly from below.
“All right, that’s enough.” I moved forward to retrieve the wayward goat, but Debra surged past me, ears flat against her head as she charged toward Eggatha.
The chicken, spotting her nemesis, let out what could only be described as a battle cry and launched herself from the roof. But it wasn’t in retreat, it was directly at Debra in a kamikaze attack of feathers and misplaced equine identity.
“For fuck’s sake.” I sprinted forward, managing to intercept Butters before he decided to join the barnyard drama.
The chaos took almost twenty minutes to sort out.
By the time I had Butters back in his pen, Eggatha safely contained, and the rest of the chickens calmed, my shirt was sticking to my back with sweat, and Walter had fallen asleep in his carrier, somehow managing to snore through the entire disaster.
I made my way toward the feed storage to replenish what Butters had scattered, but my mind wasn’t on my tasks. It kept circling back to last night and the view from my bedroom window that I hadn’t meant to see but couldn’t bring myself to turn away from.
Quinn, bathed in the golden glow of string lights, her head thrown back against Kellan as he feasted between her thighs. The graceful arch of her neck, the trembling of her thighs, the soft, broken sounds that had drifted up through the still night air.
I wasn’t proud of watching. But I wasn’t exactly sorry either.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen both Kellan and Enzo with women before and vice versa. Living in close quarters for years had eliminated most boundaries between us and made us more open sexually.
But this was different.
The raw, gut-level pull I’d felt watching Quinn had nothing to do with voyeuristic thrill and everything to do with how she looked wild and free in that moment. She was beautiful in a way that went beyond the physical act itself.
She had looked seen . And something in me had recognized and responded to that with an intensity that still lingered beneath my skin nearly twelve hours later.
I was so lost in thought that I almost didn’t notice her until I was at the stable entrance.
Quinn stood inside, struggling with a half-full muck bucket, clearly trying to drag it toward the compost cart.
She wore black leggings that hugged her curves, her new boots, and a loose shirt that had slipped off one shoulder, revealing something strappy underneath.
Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, her face flushed from exertion.
Something pulled in me at the sight.
She startled when she saw me, nearly dropping the bucket. A too-bright smile flashed across her face, not reaching her eyes.
“Morning!” Her voice practically chirped with forced cheerfulness. “Enzo has me cleaning out the stalls of the horses already out to pasture. I think he called it character building when I complained it was hard manual labor.”
Her eyes darted everywhere but directly at me.
Without a word, I crossed to her and took the bucket from her hands, my fingers brushing against hers briefly. The contact sent a jolt up my arm that I tried to ignore as I dumped the contents into the compost cart.
“Thanks. Next time I won’t fill it up so full.” She tucked an invisible loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Walter stirred in his carrier, drawing her attention. Her smile softened as she looked at him. “How’s the world’s tiniest bodyguard today?”
“Sleeping through his shift. Didn’t even help me when Eggatha and Debra tried to kill each other.”
A small laugh escaped her, then faded as quickly as it came. The unspoken acknowledgment of the night before hung between us.
I didn’t have a damned clue what to say to fill the silence.
I could read the subtle shifts in a horse’s stance from across a corral, could interpret Walter’s tiniest head tilt, but standing here with Quinn, her eyes skittering away from mine like a spooked colt’s, I felt completely out of my depth.
She pointed over her shoulder. “I’m going to get back to work.”
“Yeah, of course.” I needed to do the same instead of staring at her and imagining her under me.
She headed back toward the empty stalls, and I busied myself with checking the bridles hanging on the wall. They needed oiling, and it was as good a task as any to keep my hands occupied while my thoughts refused to settle.
As Quinn moved around the stable, however, I noticed something that pulled me from my mental spiral.
Her stride was relaxed and nothing like the stiff, cautious movements I’d expected after her first riding lesson.
Most beginners could hardly walk the day after, their thighs and backs protesting with every step, but Quinn moved with surprising ease, bending and lifting without wincing.
“Looks like the hot tub helped,” I commented before I could think better of it.
Her bucket clattered against the concrete floor. When she turned to face me, her eyes were wide with surprise before she quickly schooled her expression.
“Oh, yeah, I guess it did.” The way she suddenly found the ground fascinating told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t ready to talk about last night and whatever parts of it she thought I might be referencing.
The silence stretched between us, and I cleared my throat. “So, I haven’t seen you on your hobby horse yet.”
Her head snapped up, a different kind of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “It’s, uh, hiding in my trunk. I haven’t even ridden it yet.” Her lips curved in a self-deprecating smile. “April made me buy it. I’m still working up the courage to use the damn thing.”
I set down the bridle I’d been pretending to inspect. “What’s stopping you?”
“You mean besides the very real possibility of looking like a complete idiot? I’ve seen a few of the online comments about it. People can be... cruel.”
I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. I’d seen the comments with grown adults mocking people for having fun in a way they deemed unworthy. “How does it make you feel when you do it?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She paused, considering, and something vulnerable flickered across her face. “Free and playful. Like I’m not overthinking everything for once.” Her eyes met mine briefly before darting away. “Unfiltered, I guess.”
I knew that feeling; it was why I’d started working with horses in the first place.
“Then that matters more than what anyone else thinks.” I stepped closer, closing some of the physical distance between us. “Look, if you want, we could work on your form or... I don’t know, getting more in touch with your horse side. As a break from cleaning horse shit.”
Her smile this time was real, lighting up her face in a way that made my pulse quicken. “I’m under no obligation to continue with using a stick horse,” she said, but the protest lacked conviction.
“At least give it a shot without alcohol in your system.” I couldn’t help the teasing grin that spread across my face. “Go get it out of your car.”
She hesitated, uncertainty warring with a spark of interest in her eyes. For a moment, I thought she might refuse. Then she straightened her shoulders, chin lifting slightly.
“Fine.” She turned toward the parking lot, a challenge in her step that hadn’t been there before. “But I reserve the right to never speak of this again if it’s a disaster.”
Walter lifted his head from where I’d put him in the carrier on a bale of hay. I scratched behind his ears as I watched Quinn walk away. “This should be interesting.”
Quinn returned a few minutes later with a brown stick horse with a blonde mane tucked under one arm and a sheepish look she tried to hide.
“So this is Thunderbolt.” She held up the hobby horse with a self-conscious laugh. “April named him for me.”
“Solid name.” I gestured toward an empty training area outside the stables. “Why don’t you warm up by walking a few laps? Get a feel for it.”
She hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Do I just... hold it between my legs and walk?”
“Whatever feels natural.” I didn’t know the first thing about training with a stick horse.
Quinn stepped into the open area, tucking the stick between her legs. Her first steps were tentative, and her body was rigid with self-consciousness. She glanced back at me, clearly expecting to see judgment or mockery.
I leaned against the railing, keeping my face neutral and arms crossed. No different than how I’d observe any new rider getting the feel of their mount.
She took a deep breath and continued, her movements gradually loosening as she realized I wasn’t about to criticize. After completing a full circle, her steps became more fluid and confident.
“Remember to breathe,” I called out. “Your horse can sense when you’re tense.”
That got me a laugh, the sound warming something in my chest.
“Try adjusting your posture a bit.” I uncrossed my arms and demonstrated, mimicking the balanced stance of an experienced rider. “Spine straight but not rigid. Shoulders relaxed.”
Quinn mirrored my position, and something shifted. Her movements smoothed out as she added a tentative trot, Thunderbolt bobbing between her legs.
Walter barked from next to me, his tail wagging in approval.
I watched how her body moved. “Bend your knees more, and keep your chin up. And loosen your grip; you’re strangling him.”
She followed each suggestion without hesitation, her face transforming with each adjustment. Her hesitation gradually melted away, replaced by pure, uninhibited joy.
On her next pass around the ring, she added a playful jump over an invisible obstacle, landing with surprising grace before continuing into a canter. Her laughter filled the morning air, making Walter’s ears perk up and my own lips curve into a smile I couldn’t suppress.
Then she was galloping, ponytail flying behind her, face flushed with exhilaration. She had morphed into someone who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought as she ran circles with a stick horse between her legs.
It was the most ridiculously captivating thing I’d ever seen.
She came to a stop in front of me, chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes sparkling.
I didn’t say anything at first, just held her gaze and gave a single slow nod of approval. Something unspoken passed between us: an acknowledgment of the courage it had taken to be this vulnerable and unguarded.
Her smile widened, and for a second, I forgot about the ranch problems, the constant work, the complications of whatever was developing between her and my friends. None of it mattered in the face of that smile.
My eyes dropped to her lips, and then the sound of clapping shattered the moment.