And then it turned out that he didn’t want me at all.
“What were you doing over here in the middle of a storm?” I demand.
“Heather asked me to check in on you. Wanted to make sure you were safe inside.”
I frown. “She did?”
“Yup. Didn’t know it was you though.”
“She didn’t mention my name?” I rack my brains, wondering if I ever mentioned Holt to her. Probably not. I would’ve kept my night of humiliation to myself.
“Just said an old friend.”
Typical Heather. Always light on the details.
“How close are you exactly?” I say, thinking that I didn’t see any other properties when I drove in.
He thumbs over his shoulder. “Over on the next ridge.”
Oh, so onlytechnicallya neighbor.
“Kinda isolated out here,” he says, as if he read my thoughts.
“Yeah…” I trail off, wondering just how bad it would be if I got snowed in here.
“Do the ponies need checking on?”
I go still. “Ponies? She didn’t tell me anything about ponies.”
He lifts his head like he’s sniffing the air. “Pretty sure there’s a couple at least. In the stable out back.”
“Huh?” I snatch up the note Heather left me. I stopped reading when I got to the bit about Smokey.
“Please make sure the ponies have fresh water and a couple of good wedges of hay morning and evening, and that the stable door’s latched at night. If the weather’s bad, they’ll stay in—just muck out once a day and add clean straw. There’s a small feed bucket for each of them—check the hooks by the door for their nosebags and give them a scoop of pony nuts before bed.”
Oh, God.
I lower the note slowly. “Nosebags?”
Holt’s watching me again, clearly entertained. “Feed bags. You hang them around their heads.”
“Of course you do.” I rub my forehead. “I’m so qualified for this job.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded, that tiny ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Want a hand?”
“Nope. I can handle a couple of ponies.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Five minutes later,we’re battling through the snow, the wind slicing straight through my coat. The beam from my phone gives me barely three feet of visibility. Holt walks ahead of me with the same approach he uses for everything—solid, capable, annoyingly unbothered.
“Stay close,” he calls back.
I mutter something unflattering, but the wind steals it.
Inside the stable, the smell of warm hay and horse hits me like a blanket. Two shaggy shapes peer over their stalls, ears flicking, breath puffing into the cold. They let out twin snorts when the light hits them. One is the color of gingerbread, the other a mottled gray, both round as barrels and shaggy enough to survive an ice age.
