Chapter 4
Noah
“See the hoof wall here?” Colton says, holding up a plastic model for the small crowd—mostly kids—gathered in front of him. “Every four to six weeks or so, this needs to be trimmed down.”
“Doesn’t that hurt the horse?” one small child in a bright pink tutu asks. A fuzzy coat sits above the skirt, considering the cool weather today.
“Not in the least,” Colton says. “Does it hurt when you get your nails clipped?”
“No,” the child answers.
“Same thing,” Colton explains. “I trim their nails and clean up the soles of their hooves, same way folks exfoliate the dry skin off the bottom of their feet. I just do that part with a knife.”
A couple kids gasp, and Colton chuckles, the sound raspy.
“I’m very careful,” he says, holding up first a loop knife and then a slightly curved hoof knife with a pick at the end of the blade. It’s left-handed. I had no idea he’s left-handed. “These are the tools I use.”
As Colton explains the process of trimming a hoof, I walk away from the large tree I’d been using as cover to watch him. Not that he would have noticed me anyway in the crowd, but still. No need to invite a repeat of the incident at the store, whatever the hell that was.
I tug the collar of my jacket up around my neck and stroll past the activities at the Blossom Bash. There’s a rock painting station, a build-your-own paper sunflower craft, even a table where kids can plant flower seeds in small clay pots to bring home.
I barely see any of it.
Colton goddamn Darling.
It’d almost be better if he didn’t know his stuff. Almost. Because while I’d never wish harm to the horses he tends to, I hate to admit the man is a fine farrier. Of course, I knew that already. Colton being bad at his job was never the issue.
It’s the fact that he won’t let me be. I don’t know if he gets some sadistic pleasure out of needling me, but in all the years I’ve been here, he’s never stopped. Just poke, poke, poke every time he steals another client or passes me in town, a glare aimed my way he never seems to direct toward anybody else.
There’s a quickening of my heartbeat as I remember the way he stormed after me the other day. Now that , I wasn’t expecting. For all Colton’s inherent assholery, he’s never come at me directly. Not like that.
I probably shouldn’t have shoved him, but I can’t find it in me to regret it.
I loop back around the kids’ crafting stations, heading toward the food set up at the edge of the park. Trees are sprinkled throughout the grassy space, their bare branches starting to wake now that winter is over. Bundles of dark red buds cover the maple trees. Soon, the branches will be flush with bright green leaves.
Spotting a vendor selling tulip-shaped cookies and miniature pies, I head that way. My uncle never can resist a sugar cookie.
As I’m paying for my small bag of goods, I hear, “Well, hey there, Sierra. Doing all right?”
Sierra, the woman handing me my change, graces Colton with a wide smile. “Just fine, thanks. How’s the ranch?”
Colton opens his mouth to answer when he realizes exactly who he’s standing beside. As expected, his face transforms into a glower, but he recovers quickly, redirecting his attention Sierra’s way and effectively dismissing me. I have the sudden urge to flick the man’s cheek.
I thank Sierra and turn away, hearing Colton tell her about yoga classes at the petting farm that will be starting up again in a few weeks and some pony named Snickerdoodle. I’ve lived practically a stone’s throw away from the man for well over a decade, yet there’s so little I actually know about him. Because Colton won’t let me know him. He never gave me the chance. He couldn’t have made his preference for me to stay far, far away more clear if he tried.
Colton Darling, friend to everyone in town but me, with his pretty boy looks and windswept hair, the dark stubble, and those piercing blue eyes women like Sierra seem to love. I hate blue.
I pull a sugar cookie out of my bag, biting the tulip and its perfect baby blue frosting in half. It’s strangely satisfying, and, admittedly, the cookie does taste good.
“I wanna know what you offered the Brookes.”
Je-sus .
I turn slowly, regarding Colton, who followed me. Again . His jaw is set in a hard line, the squared muscles tense.
“Why?” I ask. “So you can undercut me?”
“Yes.”
Well, fuck. At least he’s honest. “I’m not gonna give my competitor tips.”
He crosses his arms, even though he had to know I wasn’t going to tell him. Truth be told, it wasn’t just a cheaper cost I offered the Brookes. They’ll be keeping me and my uncle stocked in goat cheese and soap for the next six months while they try to increase the revenue brought in by their farm. Well worth the trade of shoeing their horse, if you ask me.
“Is that all?” I ask Colton, who’s standing less than ten feet away, still staring at me. “Need a kiss goodbye or something?”
He balks. “I don’t want your mouth anywhere near me.”
I huff what might be a laugh. “Makes two of us. You here to apologize then? For that shit you pulled last year?”
A muscle in his jaw tics, even as his expression turns distinctly guilty. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he grits out, the words so quiet they’re hard to decipher.
“Still lost me thirty horses, little Colt. I only took back one. Doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me.”
Colton looks away, unable to hold my eye. What he pulled with Marie Doherty was downright shady. I’ve never sullied his name to get clients, only offered better deals.
“God,” he spits. “You think you’re so… entitled .”
“Sorry?” I say around a harsh laugh.
He waves a hand my way. “You. Big Noah King, all high and mighty, waiting for me to kneel in front of you.”
Well, that’s a fucking visual.
“This is one hell of an apology,” I point out, voice flat.
He makes a frustrated sound close to a growl. “You steal clients from me all the damn time, Noah. All the time. I don’t see why I should apologize. Maybe you should.”
“It’s called making a living,” I say a little louder than intended. “You didn’t make it easy to set down roots in this town. Everyone knows the precious goddamn Darlings who can do no wrong. What was I supposed to do? Not try to make a life for myself? Feed my family on one horse a month?”
He blinks, looking startled.
“If anyone here is entitled, it’s you . Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?” I snap.
Colton looks taken aback, but it only lasts for a split second. He stalks closer, tension lining his frame. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“And you know nothing about me ,” I reply. “Run along, little Colt. Unless you’re ready for that whole drop to your knees thing. I would so love to hear an apology coming out of your mouth.”
“Fuck. Off,” he says, only a few inches in front of me now. “And stop calling me that.”
I smile. Slowly. “What? Little Colt?”
Colton shoves my shoulder, and I’m positive he’d come at me again if his brother Lawson didn’t take that precise moment to approach.
“Jesus, Colt,” the man says quietly, stepping in front of Colton, his back to me. “What are you doing?”
Lawson’s teenage daughter—Wendy, I think her name is—is standing off to the side, watching us curiously.
“Nothing,” Colton says, visibly shaking himself loose.
“That didn’t look like nothing,” Lawson says, taking a second to glance at me over his shoulder. Presumably seeing I’m not about to attack either of them, he walks Colton further away, but not far enough for me to miss his words. “It looks like you were about to sock him in public. What’s going on?”
I don’t wait to hear Colton’s response. Pulse thundering and the bag of cookies crinkled slightly in my grip, I make my way to where my bike is parked on the other end of our town’s one downtown street.
I wanted him to hit me, I realize. It would’ve given me an excuse to hit him back.
I store the cookies in my saddlebag before swinging my leg over my bike. Daphne purrs to life, the sound and vibration as familiar to me as that of the engine in my truck. Helmet on, I pull away from the bustling street and the still-busy Blossom Bash. I don’t feel the cool air against my skin as I navigate toward home. My irritation is keeping me plenty hot.
After parking in my driveway, I head for the front of the house. It takes me a second to realize I’m stomping my way there. I slow my gait, frustrated with myself.
He’s the only person who gets to me like this. The only person I’m painfully tempted to throttle, if only to feel the satisfaction of watching Colton Darling’s eyes go wide in surprise. Anything would be better than that narrow-gazed hate he projects my way every time I’m within his sights.
Goddamn it .
I forcibly shove the man from my thoughts and unlock the front door.
“Walt?” I call.
“In the back.”
I leave my boots on and head through the house, down the narrow hall toward the back room where the chessboard is set up in between a large bookshelf and a somewhat ratty couch we’ll never get rid of because it was Walter’s mother’s. My grandmother’s. The floral cushions are tufted, set atop vintage wooden legs that are curved in a decorative style and somewhat scuffed. It’s where Walter reads. Me sometimes, too.
“Hey,” I say, finding him sitting on the couch. He looks up at me through his reading glasses, eyes brightening when I toss the bag of sugar cookies his way.
“Bad for my health, you know,” he says, pulling one delicate tulip free.
I huff a laugh, knowing my uncle never has and never will eat overly healthy . I just do my best to slip vegetables into his meals when I can.
“I’m gonna be out back for a bit,” I tell him, heading for the door at the tail end of the house.
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t respond.
My gas forge is within the only barn on our property. I throw the doors wide for ventilation before turning on the burners. It’ll take twenty or so minutes to heat, so I strip off my jacket, roll up my sleeves, and organize my workspace while I wait.
It’s not often that I shape shoes from scratch. Some clients request it, and some horses need it, but most of the time, the folks I work for prefer for me to start with ready-made horseshoes. They require minimal shaping to fit a horse’s hoof, making it more time and cost-effective for me, which in turn makes it a cheaper option for the client.
Doesn’t mean I don’t love taking a bar of steel and forcing it to be something else through a lot of heat and sheer determination. That’s not what I’m doing today, though.
Once the forge is to temperature, I pull on my gloves and grab my scrap metal. The piece I’m working on is based loosely on a memory of my mother from when I was young. Seven or eight, maybe. We had gardens around our house in Lincoln, Wyoming, so big and sprawling you could get lost in them at the peak of summer. There wasn’t anything unusual about that day. It was probably hot. The sun was surely shining. What I do remember is my mom, wearing a yellow gingham dress, sitting cross-legged in the grass and weaving flower crowns. She made three. One for me, one for herself, and one for my dad.
Maybe I shouldn’t still miss them at almost forty, over twenty years after they passed. But I’m not sure grief has an expiration.
The metal crown isn’t close to finished, not yet. I have to work slow with such thin pieces of steel. Bend them into twining patterns. Flatten out the leaves and carefully shape the petals.
But I’m in no rush.
It’s the process I enjoy the most. The way it’s almost meditative. How my mind can get lost in the work and there’s no room for thinking about annoying Darling natives with their sharp blue eyes and unfriendly tongues.
Damn it .
I set aside the half-formed crown and turn off the forge. It glows orange as I put away my tools and store my gloves. The sun is still shining outside the barn, but a quick check of the time on my phone tells me I’ve been out here for several hours. Time to get dinner started.
As I’m closing the barn doors behind me, I realize the conversation I had with Colton at the spring festival—if you can even call it a conversation —was the longest we’ve ever spoken in a single stretch apart from the very first time we met.
Colton Darling and I will never be friends. That much is clear.
In fact, I’m not sure we’ll ever be anything but enemies.