Chapter 6
LARKIN
My phone rang again, the fifth time in as many hours, the display showing Ephraim’s name.
I stared at it vibrating on the rough wooden table in my small apartment above the office.
I had yet to answer any of his calls. I wasn’t naive enough to think I could dodge his calls forever, but I wasn’t ready to face whatever anger or manipulation might come through the line.
Today, of all days, I couldn’t afford the emotional disruption.
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” Harlan observed from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “What are you going to tell him when you finally answer?”
I silenced the phone, watching the screen go dark before slipping it back into my pocket. “That I’m not ready to talk yet.”
Harlan nodded, his expression unreadable but his eyes showing a glimmer of concern. “He’s going to show up eventually, you know. When calls don’t work.”
I stood up from the table, straightening my shoulders in a physical preparation for the day ahead. “Then we’ll deal with that when it happens. For now, I need to focus.”
“Fair enough.” He pushed himself away from the doorway, gesturing for me to follow. “We’re ready with the new mare in the south pasture. Thought you’d want to be there for the evaluation.”
The knot in my stomach tightened slightly.
This was exactly why I couldn’t speak to Ephraim yet, why I couldn’t let myself be pulled back into the world where he dictated priorities and I followed along.
Today marked an important milestone at the rescue, the reintroduction of Willow, a three-year-old Arabian who had come to us six months ago, abused and nearly broken in spirit by a so-called trainer who had used harsh methods that had left her terrified of humans.
When I had found her through a tip from a concerned farmhand, she could barely be approached without sending her into a panic.
Under the careful, patient work of Harlan and the small team we had, she had made remarkable progress.
Today would test all of that work as we attempted to move her from the isolated pen where she had recovered into the main pasture with other rehabilitated horses.
Outside, the Pacific Northwest weather lived up to its reputation, a fine mist falling from gray skies that turned the world beyond the barn into watercolor softness.
The mud sucked at my boots as I followed Harlan toward the south pasture, the familiar smells of hay, leather, and horse bringing a strange comfort despite the tension of the coming task.
“I’ve got her in the round pen,” Harlan said as we approached. “She’s been restless since dawn.”
“Anticipating something,” I mused, my eyes already searching for Willow’s familiar dappled coat among the green. There she was, pacing the fence line with an agitation that looked almost excited rather than fearful, a significant change from the cowering horse I had first encountered.
“Exactly.” Harlan passed me a lead rope, his hands rough and competent as he held the halter. “She knows something’s happening. Just need to see if she’s ready.”
I nodded, taking my position at the gate while Harlan opened it slowly, careful not to startle her.
For a long moment, we simply watched, letting her adjust to our presence without pressure.
The technique was one we had used consistently, giving the horses the time they needed to process information on their terms rather than ours.
“You ready, girl?” I spoke softly, extending my hand palm up, an invitation not a demand.
Willow stopped her pacing, her nostrils flaring as she caught my scent on the damp air.
Slowly, so slowly, she approached, her ears twitching forward in the tentative curiosity we had worked so hard to nurture.
When her nose finally brushed against my outstretched fingers, I felt the familiar surge of connection, the kind I had rarely experienced in the formal settings where Ephraim and I kept our horses.
“Good girl,” I praised quietly, letting my hand move to the soft velvet of her nose, then to her cheek. “We’re just going on a little adventure today.”
The haltering went smoothly, no sudden movements, no tension in the rope.
Willow stood quietly as Harlan closed the gate behind us, her trust in this moment a fragile but remarkable thing given her history.
With gentle pressure, I encouraged her forward, testing her willingness to follow before asking anything more.
She walked beside me, her steps hesitant but compliant as we moved away from the familiarity of her pen toward the larger pasture where the other horses watched from the fence line, their bodies still with a collective anticipation.
They had gone through their own transformations, each with a story of neglect or abuse that had brought them to us, each now ready to potentially accept a new herd member.
When we reached the pasture gate, I paused, letting Willow look at the horses on the other side, letting her process this new development at her own pace.
Her body tensed slightly, her head coming up as she assessed the situation, the prey animal instinct that had kept her alive now potentially working against her trust in humans.
“We’re not going to push you,” I promised, stroking her neck with long, calming motions. “Just going to open the gate and see what happens. No pressure.”
Harlan unlatched the gate with careful hands, swinging it open just enough for us to pass through.
I felt Willow’s muscles tense beneath my fingers, the coiled energy of a horse deciding between fight or flight.
This was the moment, the one that would tell us whether we had reached her deeply enough to overcome her traumatic experiences.
Taking a deep breath of the damp morning air, I asked for a step forward, the lightest pressure on the lead rope, releasing immediately when she complied.
Another step, then another, until we were through the gate, the grass of the larger field under our feet, the curious eyes of the other horses following our every move.
I unclipped the lead rope from her halter, the symbolic gesture that she was now free to make her choice.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her head high, ears swiveling to catch every sound.
Then, with a sudden burst of movement that made my heart lurch, she bounded forward, not toward us or away in fear, but toward the other horses, her body language changing from tense apprehension to exploratory interest.
“Yes,” I breathed, watching as the herd approached her, the careful dance of introduction beginning. A chestnut gelding reached out first, nostrils flaring as he caught her scent, his posture relaxed and inviting.
Harlan let out a low chuckle beside me, the sound warm with satisfaction. “She’s going to be just fine.” His voice was filled with the quiet triumph of patience rewarded.
We watched for nearly an hour, the horses establishing their hierarchy, Willow neither dominant nor submissive but finding her place somewhere in the middle.
She would still need monitoring, occasional interventions if the dynamics shifted unexpectedly, but for today, she had made a quantum leap in her rehabilitation.
“This calls for celebration,” Harlan announced when we finally left the pasture, confident that the integration was proceeding naturally.
I felt the truth of his words, not as an excuse to drink or party, but as a genuine need to acknowledge what had been accomplished.
It wasn’t just about Willow, I realized as we walked back toward the office, it was about all of us finding our place, our purpose, our herd.
For years, I had been trying to fit myself into Ephraim’s vision, into his plans and ambitions, never realizing I was like one of these horses, needing to find my own pasture, my own way of being in the world.
Back at the office, Harlan poured two mugs of strong coffee from the old percolator that seemed to run perpetually, the rich aroma filling the small space.
I took mine to the window, watching the pasture where Willow now stood grazing calmly among the others, the rain still falling in a gentle curtain that made the whole scene feel dreamlike.
“You did good work with her,” I said, my voice quiet but filled with emotion. “We all did.”
Harlan shrugged, leaning back against his desk. “Just gave her the time and space she needed. Sometimes that’s all any of us need, someone who doesn’t rush us or expect us to be something we’re not yet ready to be.”
The words landed with unexpected weight, their deeper meaning not lost on me. I turned to look at him, this quiet man who had become such an unexpected anchor in my new life. “Is that what you think I’m doing here? Finding the time and space I need?”
He met my gaze directly, his eyes kind but honest. “Seems that way to me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have you here in person. But I think this place serves you as much as you serve it. Maybe more.”
The truth of his observation was both liberating and terrifying.
I had come here seeking refuge, but what if Harlan was right?
What if I needed this environment, these simple truths about healing and trust, as much as the horses did?
The thought was interrupted by my phone ringing again from where I had left it on the table, Ephraim’s name flashing insistently.
I ignored it, as I had the previous times, but the sound had broken the spell of the moment, the persistent electronic buzz jarring against the rhythmic sounds of horses moving in their stalls.
Harlan noticed, his expression tightening slightly as his gaze flicked from my face to the vibrating device, the weathered lines around his eyes deepening with concern.
“You going to keep avoiding him forever?”