Chapter 33 Ford
Ford
Isit on the hay-strewn floor of one of the stable stalls, cradling the bottle in my hands and guiding it gently to the foal’s mouth. She hesitates for a moment, then latches on, her tiny body trembling with effort.
“That's a good girl,” I tell her, stroking her soft neck as she feeds. Her coat is still downy, pale and golden in the evening light that filters through the slats in the stable wall.
Just outside the stall, Buddy sits with his head tilted, watching quietly through the wooden bars. His ears twitch every time the foal shifts, but he stays still, like he knows this moment needs calm.
Star gave birth just a couple of days after the camping trip, and I’ve been pretty busy ever since, tending to her and her new foal. Jensen’s been helping a lot, too, ever since it became clear that Star had rejected her baby. It happens sometimes.
Maybe it’s the trauma from her last home. Whatever she endured there, it seems to have left her wary and distant, now that she’s had the little one. She won’t let the foal feed, won’t let her close.
Jensen, Kit, and I have been bottle-feeding the foal, while also trying to encourage some kind of maternal bond, but Star’s having none of it. She watches from the corner of the stall, ears flicking, eyes guarded.
It’s been tough. Frustrating. Sad. But at least both mother and baby are healthy. And for now, that’s enough.
Kit appears in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, his hair tousled, and his school bag slung over one shoulder. He gives me a tired smile and leans against the frame for a moment, blinking hard like he’s trying to force himself to stay awake.
He’s been here every morning before school, and again in the evenings, making sure to help in any way he can.
I’m grateful for it. He’s juggling this between homework and looking after everyone at home and still shows up without complaint.
He’s a good kid. And right now, I don’t know what I’d do without him.
It’s exhausting, but none of us grumbles. Not out loud anyway.
Still, the tired lines around Kit’s eyes say enough. He gives me a soft nod, then glances at the foal with something like pride, like he knows she’s still here because we didn’t give up on her.
“I’m gonna head home,” he says, voice low and scratchy with fatigue. “Got a test tomorrow that I should probably pretend to study for.”
I glance toward the open stable door, surprised by how dark the sky is turning. The light’s fading fast, and the air has that soft chill that creeps in just before night settles.
“Alright,” I say, still seated on the hay, gently supporting the bottle as the foal feeds. “Get home safe. And thank you… for everything.”
He shrugs, but his smile is less nonchalant. “Anytime.”
I hear his footsteps crunch away, slow and uneven and a moment later, a voice drifts faintly from outside. It’s Kit’s, casual and low. Then two more voices respond, too quiet to make out. Just the soft murmur of conversation, carried on the cooling evening air.
I’m watching the foal’s ears twitch as she suckles, when I hear footsteps approaching, lighter, quicker than Kit’s had been. Then Missy’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“She hasn’t seen her yet,” she says, and I glance up to see her walking towards the stall with Stormy trailing just behind. “I knew she’d love her. Thought it was time for a proper introduction.”
I give Missy a look—one I know she understands. The kind that says ‘really?’
She just raises her eyebrows and shrugs, lips twitching into a smug little smile. The ‘what are you going to do about it?’ kind.
I guess I can’t lie to myself and say I’m not happy about this.
Deep down, I know it hasn’t been enough, just seeing her around here and there. I’ve found reasons to be near her. Fixing things. Dropping by.
And yeah, maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s crossing a line we agreed not to cross.
But they’re not just excuses. They are things I want to help with.
Things that matter to her.
And if I can make her day a little easier, a little quieter, then maybe that’s enough.
Even if it’s just for a moment.
I’ve been aching to spend more time with her. Even with my hands full. Even with every excuse to stay distracted.
And every time I’ve been here with this little one, my thoughts drift to Stormy, to how much I think she’d adore her.
Then Stormy steps fully into view, and just like every time I see her—whether it’s from a distance, as we pass each other, or when I catch her in the garden, back to reading in the mornings—my heart beats just a little harder.
She hesitates at the stall door, her eyes going wide as they settle on the foal. Her hand lifts to her mouth. Her eyes are unbelievably blue, sparkling with the magic of new life, and her expression is filled with wonder and tenderness. She steps forward slowly, like she’s afraid of startling her.
“Oh my goodness,” Stormy whispers, crouching just inside the stall. “I didn’t realise she’d be so small.”
“She’s still finding her feet,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady. “But she’s strong. Got a bit of fight in her.”
The foal shifts slightly, and I stroke her neck again, murmuring something soft under my breath. Stormy watches, her eyes flitting between me and the little one, and I see the moment she falls for her. It’s written all over her face.
“Come and say hi, if you want,” I encourage, gesturing with my free hand for her to come closer.
Stormy steps in slowly, her boots crunching softly over the hay. She kneels beside me, placing her hand gently on the foal’s back.
“She’s so soft,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s beautiful.”
I glance sideways, watching her smile. ‘Just like you,’ I want to tell her, but instead I say, “She is.”
Something in my chest tightens, and I fight not to continue staring.
Stormy strokes the foal’s back in slow, gentle circles, her gaze soft.
“Missy told me her mum rejected her,” she says quietly, not looking up.
“Yeah. Didn’t take to her,” I nod, keeping my voice steady. I pause, glancing around over to where Star is. “Could be everything she went through before she got here. Her old home wasn’t kind. Might’ve been too much for her. Or maybe she just doesn’t know what to do with her.”
Stormy’s eyes flick towards Star, her brow creasing.
“That breaks my heart,” she murmurs. “She’s just an animal. She didn’t ask for any of that.”
I glance at Stormy. She looks like she understands. Not just what Star’s been through, but also what it feels like to be broken.
I see it, the compassion and the understanding, etched into her expression.
She turns back to the foal in my arms, her voice softening even more.
“Your poor mummy,” she whispers, brushing her fingers gently over the foal’s ear. “But how could anybody leave you?”
I don’t say anything right away. She’s talking to the foal, I know that. But the words land somewhere deep. People have left. Some quietly, and some without even saying goodbye.
But hearing her say that, even if it’s not meant for me, something in my chest loosens. Warms. Like hearing it from her makes me think she won’t leave.
I watch her, and for a second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to let her close. But then I clear my throat gently, grounding myself in this moment.
“Would you like to have a go at feeding her?” I ask, offering her the bottle. “She’s nearly finished, but there’s still a bit left.”
Stormy nods, her eyes bright.
“I’d love to.”
She shifts closer, and I pass her the bottle, careful not to jostle the foal. Our fingers brush. Her skin is warm, and her touch is light and careful.
“She likes it angled just a little,” I say, adjusting Stormy’s hold gently. My hand clasps hers longer than it needs to, and I feel her glance at me, not startled, not pulling away, just watching.
“She’s doing great,” I offer quietly, nodding toward the foal. “You’re a natural.”
Stormy smiles, then turns her attention back to the little one, her voice soft and affectionate. “There you go, baby girl,” she whispers, stroking the foal’s neck with the backs of her fingers. “You’re doing so well.”
The foal shifts slightly, her ears flicking, and I watch Stormy feed her, her brow furrowed in concentration, her voice low and soothing. I feel that ache in my chest that’s been building for weeks surface again. It’s not just a crush. It can’t be. It’s something deeper.
She glances up at me briefly, her eyes bright and her smile genuine. And I wonder, just for a moment, if she feels it too.
Is friendship really enough for us?
Because right now, watching her kneel in the hay, bottle in hand, her voice full of warmth and compassion, I’m not sure it is.
I glance toward the stall door for a moment, expecting to see Missy still hovering nearby, but the space is empty. Somehow, she’s slipped away without either of us noticing. Of course she has. She knew exactly what she was doing.
But then Stormy shifts, and my attention snaps back to her. “What’s her name?” she asks, looking over at me.
I shake my head.
“She hasn’t got one yet.”
Stormy’s eyebrows lift.
“Really?”
I nod, watching her closely.
“You want to name her?”
She blinks, surprised.
“Me?”
“Why not?” I ask, smiling. “She seems to like you. Feels right.”
Stormy looks down at the foal and strokes her golden coat with slow, thoughtful fingers. The last of the sunset catches her hair, and for a moment, the two of them look like they belong together.
She’s quiet for a beat, considering. Then her smile curves gently—knowingly—as she glances back at me.
“Sunshine,” she says. “She looks like sunshine.”
I freeze. My breaths are caught somewhere between my chest and throat.