Chapter Eight
Maverick
Me: Send me everything you can find about Raynaud’s Syndrome.
Luca: Of course Don. Consider it done.
Satisfied that Luca will get me the information I requested, I pocket my phone and head toward my brother.
Stefano stands near the edge of the goat yoga area, watching a small black-and-white goat climb onto the back of a woman attempting to hold a pose on her mat.
The goat looks far more confident than the woman.
My brother, however, looks delighted.
He’s been home for a month, and in that time, I’ve seen him more relaxed and happy than I have in years. There is still weight in him. Still shadows I know well because they match my own. But they don’t sit as heavily on his shoulders here.
Moving him to Palm Springs was the correct decision.
I only wish I’d done it years ago.
“How did the conversation with the tiny Don go?” Stefano asks as I step beside him.
Smiling, I can’t help but agree with the comparison.
Olivia Moore may be ten years old, but she holds herself like a woman who has already decided the world will bend if she stares at it hard enough.
“She asked if I was going to marry her mother,” I admit.
Stefano turns his head slowly, delight spreading across his face.
“Oh, I like her.”
“Then she proceeded to tell me her mother needs a husband who is not afraid to make her take care of herself.”
His amusement softens into something quieter. “Smart girl.”
“Very.”
My gaze finds Amelia across the sanctuary.
She’s still speaking with a photographer, gesturing toward a wall of pictures with her clipboard tucked under one arm. She smiles as she talks, but one hand is hidden beneath her opposite elbow, her fingers curled into her palm.
I know what that means now.
Or at least, I’m beginning to.
Raynaud’s.
Olivia’s words settle in my chest with surprising weight.
What if the thing causing her harm is her own body?
I have spent my life learning how to stand between my family and danger. Men with guns. Men with knives. Men with greed in their hearts and blood on their hands.
But this?
This is an enemy I can’t threaten into submission.
I don’t like that.
Stefano follows my gaze, then hums under his breath.
“You’re already in trouble, fratello.”
“I’m simply gathering information. Her daughter said she has Raynaud's.”
“You’ve already texted Luca, haven’t you?”
I say nothing…He laughs.
“You absolutely did.”
“She lost part of a finger because of this condition,” I say, my voice low. “Her daughter worries about her. Watches her. That’s not a burden a child should carry.”
“No,” Stefano agrees softly. “It’s not.”
Mia turns then, laughing at something the photographer says.
The sound drifts across the space between us, bright enough to pull at something inside me I thought had long since gone silent.
Stefano nudges my arm with his elbow.
“Careful, Mav.”
I keep my eyes on her.
“I’m always careful.”
“No,” he says, still watching me. “You’re controlled. There’s a difference.”
I glance at him but he simply smiles.
Annoying man.
Before I can answer, the goat on the yoga woman’s back lets out a triumphant bleat, and the woman collapses forward onto her mat with a startled laugh.
Stefano grins.
“I want one.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“You want a goat.”
“I do.”
“No.”
He sighs dramatically. “You deny me joy.”
“I preserve my estate.”
“Same thing.”
Despite myself, I smile.
Across the sanctuary, Mia looks over, and for one brief moment, her eyes meet mine.
Her smile fades just enough to become something softer. Something uncertain.
Something that makes the noise around me seem to fall away.
Then someone calls her name, and she turns back to her work.
Stefano chuckles beside me.
“Oh, yes,” he murmurs. “Very much in trouble.”
This time, I don’t bother denying it.
“I’m going to ask Bones if a goat can balance on his big head.”
Sighing, I rub at my temples.
“You’ve been here a month, and that man has already threatened to kill you five times. You’ve been hanging out with Skip too much.”
“Yeah,” Stefano says with a laugh. “He’s good people.”
“He’s certifiably insane,” I remind him. “And the reason Bones is going to kill you.”
“You wouldn’t let that happen,” he says, already turning toward the goat yoga sign-up table.
He’s right. I wouldn’t.
I care for Bones the same way I care for the rest of the Shadows. They’re family. Brothers in every way that matters.
But if it ever came down to it, I would choose Stefano’s side every time.
Still…
If my brother pushes hard enough and Bones lashes out with his fists, I may let him land one.
Maybe two.
For educational purposes, of course.
“Idiota,” I mutter.
Stefano glances back with a grin. “I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
***
I wave as the guards and parents drive off with the children who came to the event.
We’ve been here all day, and every one of them looks sun-worn, sugar-filled, and happy.
A successful day, indeed.
I make my way back across the sanctuary grounds, stopping briefly at the donation booth. No one is watching as I drop my check into the bucket, which is exactly how I prefer it.
After that, I head toward the barn.
It’s the only place I haven’t visited yet.
The air changes the moment I step inside. Cooler. Quieter. Thick with the clean, earthy scent of hay, leather, grain, and horses. Outside, the fundraiser still hums with distant voices and the occasional laugh, but in here, everything feels softer.
Sacred, almost.
“Hello, sir,” a man greets from near the first stall. “Would you like to meet the horses?”
“Please,” I say with a smile.
He leads me down the aisle, stopping at each stall. He tells me their names, their stories, the condition they were in when they arrived, and how far they’ve come. Each stall has a picture of the horse when they arrived.
Some were starved.
Some beaten.
Some neglected until their bodies nearly gave out.
I listen to every word.
Not because I need the information, though I always value information, but because the way this man speaks tells me something important about the sanctuary.
There’s love here.
Not pity.
Not performance.
Love.
“Not all the horses are out today,” he says as we stop in front of a smaller mare with a glossy coat and a ridiculous pink braid tied into her mane. “A few are still in rough shape, and being around this many people would be too stressful for them.”
“As it should be,” I say. “Their comfort comes first.”
He nods, looking pleased I understand. “Exactly. But this one here is Princess Pickles.”
I blink.
The little mare blinks back at me.
I’m fairly certain she’s judging my suit.
“She belongs to our tiny owner,” the man adds.
“Amelia’s?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says with a grin. “Not the boss. The warden.”
“Ah,” I say with a chuckle. “Olivia.”
“Yep. That girl runs a tighter ship than most grown folks I know. Princess Pickles here is hers. Or, well, that’s what Livy says. The paperwork says otherwise, but no one’s brave enough to argue with her.”
“I can imagine.”
Princess Pickles stretches her nose toward me, sniffing the front of my jacket with great suspicion.
“She bite?”
“Only if you insult her name.”
“I would never.”
The man laughs.
I lift a hand slowly, waiting for the mare to decide if I’m worthy of her attention. After a moment, she lowers her head and allows me to stroke the soft line between her eyes.
“Princess Pickles,” I murmur. “A powerful name.”
The mare huffs.
Clearly, she agrees.
“You’re a big man,” he tells me. “I have a demonstration starting soon on how to change a horse’s shoe, and my original volunteer had to leave. Care to help?”
“Not at all,” I say, intrigued. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, I’m Rory,” he says with a smile. “I work here and help Ms. Moore with the tasks that are too hard to do on her own. Like changing shoes.”
Rory.
The man Olivia mentioned.
The one she said was nice but not right for her mother.
Interesting.
“Princess Pickles doesn’t look too big,” I say, eyeing Rory a little more closely now that I know he’s here every day with the girls.
“Don’t let her size fool you,” he says. “Princess Pickles packs quite the kick if you rile her up. But I wasn’t talking about her. She’s docile enough that even Livy could change her shoes if the task itself wasn’t so hard.”
“It’s really hard to get the old ones off,” Olivia says from behind me.
I turn to find her standing there with her clipboard hugged to her chest, looking every bit as serious as she had earlier.
“And you have to use a ton of pressure to file down their hooves before you can put the new shoes on,” she continues. “Mama says it takes patience, practice, and pressure. The three P’s.”
“The three P’s,” I repeat.
She nods proudly. “I have the first one down. I’m very patient. I’ve been practicing a lot on Princess Pickles, but I don’t have the strength to use the tools yet.”
“Yet?” I ask.
“Yet,” she says firmly. “I’m still growing.”
Rory chuckles. “That she is.”
Olivia looks up at me, studying me the way only children can. Openly. Thoroughly. Without a single ounce of shame.
“You’re probably strong enough,” she decides.
“I would hope so.”
“Do you know anything about horses?”
“Not much,” I admit.
She makes a thoughtful sound, like this is disappointing but not impossible to overcome.
“That’s okay. Rory can teach you. Mama says everybody has to start somewhere.”
“A wise woman, your mother.”
“She is,” Olivia says, then glances toward Rory. “But don’t let him do it wrong. Horses need their feet taken care of carefully.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise.
Her eyes narrow slightly.
I get the sense Olivia Moore takes promises very seriously.
“Good,” she says. “Thor is mean if he needs to be, but he’s been in a good mood all day, so he probably won’t fight you.”
“Thor?” I ask.
“The horse you’re helping with,” Rory explains, a little too amused.
I glance toward the stall he gestures to and find a massive black horse watching us with one ear tipped forward and the other angled back.
Of course his name is Thor.
Olivia nods. “I’m gonna go tell Mama, and then we’re gonna come watch. I’ll give you a grade at the end.”
“A grade?”