3. Chapter 3 #2
I wave a hand toward the room. “Nothing. I’m just adjusting to the fact that your horses have a nicer spa setup than most people I know.”
His expression doesn’t change. “This is a working operation.”
“Sure.”
I trail my fingers lightly over the polished edge of a half-door as we keep walking, then pull my hand back. Even the wood feels expensive.
And suddenly every cheap thing I own becomes brutally vivid in my head: the frayed cuff of the sweatshirt in my duffel, the cracked phone charger I keep pretending will last one more month, the sound my car made last night when I killed the engine and silently begged it not to die before morning.
This ranch is polished, expensive, and intimidating in all the ways I am not, and the contrast sits under my skin like a splinter.
Rebel opens another gate and waits for me to pass through. I do it because refusing would be childish.
It would be easier if he looked smug, but he doesn’t. He looks exactly like a man determined to behave as though last night has already been filed, buried, and professionally regretted, which somehow makes all of this worse.
By the time we step into the next aisle, my jaw aches from how hard I am holding it in place. Staying is going to feel like swallowing glass. I know that already, and I'm only ten minutes in.
He keeps talking about schedules, stall assignments, the exact procedure for logging feed changes, injury notes, medication, turnout, transport.
I catch most of it because years in barns have trained me to listen even when I’m furious, but part of me is drifting a step behind the words, stuck on the harder truth underneath all of this.
The thought that I could still leave keeps circling back. I could walk to the bunkroom, grab my bag, get in my car, and drive until the gas light came on. I could tell myself I chose dignity.
The problem is that self respect doesn't buy a water pump, or stretch a checking account that's already down to apology money. Self respect doesn't hand me another job, or another barn willing to take a stranger with a half-broken car.
What I hate is not that staying hurts. Of course it hurts. What I hate is that walking out would not feel clean or strong. It would feel like something I have already done too many times before.
Take the hit, keep moving and be practical.
I know how to do that. What surprises me is how much I resent being asked to do it again.
Rebel pauses beside another stall and says something about turnout rotation that I miss entirely. He glances at me, and I realize too late that he is waiting for an answer.
“Sorry,” I say. “Say that again.”
His gaze narrows slightly. “South paddocks rotate on a stagger when the ground is wet,” he says. “No one makes that call alone. You clear it through Wade if I’m not here.”
“Got it.”
He holds my eyes for one beat longer than necessary, and something in me braces, expecting another correction. Instead he just says, “If something's wrong, you speak up. I don’t care who you think you’re interrupting.”
The line lands oddly. Not soft. Definitely not kind. But not dismissive either.
For a second it cuts against the version of him I'm trying very hard to keep simple. I look away first and reach for the nearest latch just to have something to do with my hands. The brass is smooth and cold under my fingers.
I straighten, look down the aisle toward the sunlit doors at the far end of the barn, and make the decision for real this time. I am staying.
Not because he made it easy, or because this ranch suddenly feels welcoming. I'm staying because I'm tired of letting one bad break, or one humiliating morning shove me off the last solid thing in front of me.
I draw one steadying breath.
The first sign is not loud. It starts with a hard metallic rattle two stalls down, followed by the sharp stamp of a hoof pawing the ground. Then comes a quick, breathy snort. High. Wrong.
I turn before Rebel does.
The mare in the third stall has her head up and ears pinned halfway back, not flat in aggression but twitching in that overloaded way that says too much is hitting her all at once.
A young groom is reaching through the bars with a halter, movements jerky in the exact way that makes a keyed-up horse worse.
Beside the stall, a radio clipped to someone’s belt spits static every few seconds.
There. That’s the problem. The mare slams one hoof again and tosses her head so hard the lead hanging by the door swings against the wall.
“Easy, girl,” the groom says, which would be more reassuring if his own voice didn't sound like he’s one bad move from getting his face rearranged.
Rebel steps forward, already reaching for the stall latch, but I’m moving before I think better of it.
“Stop.”
The word comes out clean enough to cut through the aisle.
Both men look at me. I ignore them and point at the radio. “Turn that off.”
The groom hesitates.
“Now,” I say.
He fumbles for it, and the static cuts out. The aisle drops quieter immediately, soft enough that the mare’s breathing becomes the loudest thing in the space.
She's not angry. She's just trapped and over stimulated, so when I step closer to the stall, I stay calm. Her nostrils flare when I come into view, and I catch the tension shivering through her shoulder.
“There you are,” I murmur, keeping my voice easy and low. “That’s all this is, huh? Too much at once.”
Behind me, nobody says anything.
I keep my body turned enough not to pressure her and glance once at the groom’s hand still gripping the halter too tight. “Loosen up,” I say quietly. “You’re telling her something bad is about to happen.”
He looks offended for half a second, then eases up on his grip.
The mare still looks nervous as she tries to spin around, but we steady her.
I study the stall another second and spot it: a loose corner of reflective foil insulation flapping near the overhead vent every time the aisle fan kicks on. Not much. Just enough flash and movement to keep catching her eye from the wrong angle.
I point to it without taking my eyes off her. “That. Can somebody fix that before she panics again?”
Wade … who I didn’t even realize had come into the aisle … moves at once, grabbing the ladder leaning by the wash bay wall, and fixes the foil.
The mare’s head lowers an inch. Then another.
I let out a breath through my nose and take one careful step closer. “Good girl,” I murmur. “That’s it.”
This time when I reach toward her, she doesn't fling herself away from the touch. My fingers slide to the side of her neck, warm and trembling under the coat, and I work small circles into the muscle until the tremor eases.
When I finally look back over my shoulder, the whole aisle has gone still. The groom looks chastened.
Wade keeps watching, curiously, while Rebel looks at me like I’ve just become a different kind of problem entirely.