“Sounds good.”
“Bye, Kacey. Have a good one.”
A sigh of relief rushes out of me, and I head for Dad’s house. This works—I can continue to ride Hooch in the arena until he gets the shoe back on. Just no riding on rocks so he doesn’t bruise his foot.
“Hey,” I say to Dad when I spot him in the living room, “Jack has some guy coming to put Hooch’s shoe back on this Wednesday.”
“Good. If he has time, see if he’ll trim those broodmares.”
Ha, yeah right.No one wants to trim broodmares. Broodmares—female horses, specifically used for breeding—are known for being moody and a royal pain when it comes to trimming their feet.
“I’ll ask, but I doubt he does.”
“Either he will, or he won’t. No big deal.” Dad never gets too worked up about things. He takes a sip of his whiskey and continues to watch TV. “Any new foals today?”
“Nope. There are only a few mares left; we should be done in the next couple of weeks.”
Broodmares, foals, and colts starting are my areas of expertise on the Diamond Hart. I could talk for hours about which colts show promise, which don’t, and how we can improve our breeding program.
“Good. Have you picked your favorite yet?”
Dad gives me a knowing look.
I scoff. “I do not pick favorites . . . this early.” I’m lying and he knows it. “There is a really nice red roan stud colt, though.”
The truth is, these horses saved me. When I was drowning in grief, they were there. Forcing me to get up and get going. They have been the constant in my life I needed after my mom passed.
Dad chuckles under his breath. “Show me tomorrow.”
I stand and exit the stall. One of my mares decided this morning’s unseasonable warmth was the perfect weather to go into labor. I stayed back, monitoring her while the cowboys wentto move more yearlings to the feedyard. Now, it’s only 10 a.m., and we have a new, perfectly healthy foal.
Ding!
Unknown
Hi Kacey, this is Knox. Jack said you need a shoe put back on. I can be there around noon.
Kacey
Great, thanks. I’ll have him out and ready for you.
Two hours later, I’m leaning on the fence watching the new foal stumble around on shaky legs when a third generation black Dodge pulls into the drive. I push off the fence and head toward the barn as he backs up to the open doorway. I almost trip on my own feet when a man several inches taller than me, with averyfit build steps out of the truck. Light brown curly hair peeks from underneath a flat-billed ball cap, and what looks like week-old scruff accents a face fit for a movie star. His Carhartt sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms and cinch jeans aredefinitelyworking for him.
I caught myself thinking I could request to completely reset the shoes on Hooch, just for the view. Sure. I might not be interested in dating, but a girl can window shop.
When he shuts the truck door and says, “Hi, I’m Knox,” in a deep, smooth voice, I almost swallow my tongue.
I clear my throat. “Hey, I’m Kacey. Thanks for coming all the way out here. I really appreciate it.”
His eyes scan me quickly. He’s checking me out, but not in a creepy way, more of an appraisal, like I wasn’t what he was expecting.
Then, Knox removes his hat and shakes my hand.
Oh gosh, I hope he can’t feel my sweaty palm. Get it together, Kacey, you’ve met attractive men before. Granted, those men don’t look like I designed my dream man on a computer, but still.
Shit. I held onto that handshake way too long.
Focus, Kacey.
