Chapter 20
The next morning, I throw myself into the one thing which always makes sense here—work.
The barn is alive with motion, warm hay dust spinning through beams of sunlight. Horses shift in their stalls, restless and watchful, picking up on the energy buzzing through the ranch. In a few days is the Belmont Stakes, and the whole crew is wound tight.
I’m elbow-deep in brushing down a bay gelding named Jasper when John appears beside me, his ball cap low, sleeves shoved to his elbows. He doesn’t waste time with small talk. Simply hands me another brush and jerks his chin toward the mare in the next stall.
“She gets jittery if you rush her,” he says. “Long, slow strokes down her flank. Calms her.”
I nod and take the brush, letting the mare sniff my wrist before I start. Her skin quivers under my touch, but she settles after a few minutes, leaning into the rhythm like she needs it as much as I do.
“Good,” John mutters, approval gruff but there. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
The barn fills with sound, brushes dragging through coats, the squeak of leather tack being oiled, the steady hum of conversation from the other hands.
A couple of them joke back and forth, laughter cutting through the morning.
Someone whistles a tune I don’t recognize, and it threads through the air like an anchor keeping everyone steady.
I keep my head down, letting the work soothe me.
The nightmare came to me again last night.
More vivid than the last. It still clings like cobwebs, and underneath that, the pool house memory gnaws at the edges of my chest. The horses don’t judge, don’t ask questions.
They just exist, breathing and solid, letting me lose myself in the rhythm.
“Next is Justify,” John says after a while, tipping his chin toward the last stall. “He’s quick-footed. Colter’s betting on him for the Stakes.”
Of course Colter’s name has to slip in. It’s like the man is stitched into every corner of this place.
I grab a curry comb and step into Justify’s stall. The monstrous black stallion flicks his ears back, testing me, but when I run the comb in circles along his shoulder, he exhales a warm gust, ruffling my hair.
“You’re a stubborn one, huh?” I whisper. “Guess we’ve got something in common.”
John leans on the doorframe, arms folded. “He doesn’t take to many people. Surprised he’s lettin’ you near.”
I shrug, not looking up. “Maybe he can tell I’m not in the mood to fight him for it.”
The corner of John’s mouth quirks, but he doesn’t push. It is one of the things I appreciate about my biological father. He doesn’t push.
The hours pass in pieces, brushing, leading horses out to the training ring, swapping brushes for tack, hauling saddles which weigh nearly as much as I do.
Sweat beads at my temples, my hoodie long since abandoned, arms dusted with hay.
My muscles ache, but it’s the good kind of ache.
An ache which means I did something useful.
By the time the sun tips past noon, the air hums with a tired, satisfied energy. Horses gleam, stalls are cleaned, and the smell of oiled leather clings to everything. The men stretch and trade banter, a couple heading toward the mess hall for food. John gives me a curt nod.
“You did good today.”
The words land heavier than they should. It’s been a long time since anyone told me about anything.
“Thanks,” I murmur, dragging a hand through my sweaty hair.
He doesn’t linger, but tips his hat and heads off, leaving me with Justify still nosing at my sleeve like he isn’t ready for me to leave.
I press my forehead to his neck, closing my eyes, breathing in the warm, earthy scent of him. Out here, with the horses and the dirt and the work, I can almost believe I belong. Almost forget the image of Colter’s head tipped back, his face lost in pleasure which wasn’t for me.
Almost.