“Oh,” I breathe, stepping closer. “They’re actually… adorable.”
Holt chuckles under his breath. “See, it could be worse.”
I glance back at him, the beam of my flashlight catching his face—the faint grin, the damp curls sticking to his forehead. My stomach does something stupid and traitorous.
“Right,” I mutter, setting to work. “Water, hay, muck out, feed. How hard can it be?”
He doesn’t answer, just watches as I wrestle with the gate latch and nearly fall into the straw.
“You can laugh,” I warn. “But if I go down, tell Heather I died bravely.”
He shakes his head, stepping forward. “Here. Let me.”
Our hands brush on the latch, a spark in the cold. He opens it easily, stepping aside for me to pass.
The ponies stretch their necks toward us, curious, their breath misting in the cold air.
“The hay’s stacked at the back,” Holt says, already moving toward it.
He tosses a few forkfuls into their mangers like he’s done it a thousand times. I grab the water bucket, topping it up from the barrel.
We’re a good team, I think. And then I’m all mad at myself all over again.
The ponies snuffle at my coat pockets, hopeful, warm breath brushing my hands. I can’t help smiling. “Sorry, guys. No treats.”
Holt chuckles behind me. “Heather usually keeps sugar cubes in that tin.” He nods toward the shelf by the door.
Of course, he knows.
I find the tin, open it, and offer each pony one cube. Their teeth crunch softly, their whiskered noses nudging my palm.
Outside, the wind howls again and the stable walls creak.
“Storm’s coming,” he says in a low voice.
I glance back. He’s leaning against the stable door, arms folded, watching me. The dim light catches the heft of his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw.
He looks like he belongs here—at ease in the chaos. I hate that it makes me feel safer just having him nearby.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move, just watches me brush stray bits of hay off my coat. The air between us feels charged again, thick with everything we’re not saying.
Then he straightens, pushing off the door. “They’re set for the night. You should get inside.”
“Yes,” I say, then wonder why I feel disappointed.
We leave the stable together, fastening the door tight against the wind. Snow whips sideways, stinging my face. Holt keeps close, one hand hovering near my back without quite touching.
“Watch the ice,” he says.
The beam from my phone cuts a narrow tunnel through the dark, the snow swallowing everything else. I keep my head down, counting my steps, focusing on the sound of his boots beside mine.
By the time we reach the porch, my fingers are numb. He reaches past me, opens the door, and the wave of heat from the fire hits us both.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping inside. “For the ponies. And the rescue.”
He nods, brushing snow from his shoulders. His hair’s damp again, curling against his neck.
“You could stay till it settles,” I hear myself say. “If the roads are bad.”
