Clapping him on the back, I relax a bit. The summer hires Mom found this year are the shittiest they’ve ever been. Brock, the youngest of them at fifteen, would lose his head if it wasn’t attached. Never seen a worse-placed saddle in my life than when he tried to put Diesel’s on last week. If I’d done the same thing at his age, I’d have been sleeping in the shed all winter long.
“Alright,” I grunt.
Otis lingers, his gaze a bit too curious for my liking. I arch a brow and cross my arms, ignoring the restricting feeling of the Painted Sky–branded long-sleeve.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it, Otis.”
“Just want to make sure you’re all good.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He takes a step back and lets it go. “Okay, I hear you.”
“Get the wranglers ready for the new horses. I’m not dealing with my dad when he starts bitching about you being unorganized.”
“Got it.”
Without another word, I enter the stable.
It’s humming with morning noise. Boots scuff the concrete floor as stall doors creak open, and some idiot kid whistles from the feed room. Another one leads an unsaddled gelding down the aisle, fighting the lead rope the whole way outside.
I ignore everyone around me, my sights set on Diesel as he stands tied to the crossties at the far side of the stable. He’s tacked up, his ears pinned and tail swishing in short, angry bursts. I almost laugh at how fucking mean he can be when he’s in here like this, antsy to get outside for a ride. Pitch-black with a white blaze and a gaze that could level any one of these kids in here, he shuffles on the mat beneath him, hoofs scraping it.
“I wouldn’t get too close,” Brock warns, sidestepping me wide. “He’s in a mood this morning.”
“Is that right?”
“Nearly bit my head off when I put the halter on.”
I cock a brow. Diesel stills when he sees me, his head lowering as his ears twitch. The peace that fills me when I reach him is like nothing else on this earth. I run my hand up his nose and give him a few scratches behind the ears.
“He just doesn’t like you,” I say bluntly.
The kid goes red, plucking at the collar of his filthy shirt. “Right. That’s reassuring.”
I swallow a laugh and unhook him from the crossties. When I take the loose, worn reins Brock’s left around the saddle horn and clip them to the halter rings beneath Diesel’s jaw, Brock speaks again. “You really don’t bridle him?”
“Surprised you know that term already.”
He flushes again, embarrassed. “I’ve been trying.”
“I don’t need to bridle him right now. A horse like Diesel doesn’t need a metal bit to listen.”
“Everyone else uses one.”
“I don’t give a shit about everyone else.” I swing my body into the saddle easily. “You did a good job with this today. Do it like this every time and you won’t wind up fired.”
Adjusting the reins in my hand, I straighten my back and wait for Diesel to move on his own. When he starts toward the open door, I look away from the kid and focus on getting out of here before my dad appears. The sun’s a bit higher now, and I decide that we’ll chase it for a bit.
At least until I have no choice but to come back and get to work.
“Jesus!Where the hell did these come from? Hell?”
I hop off Diesel and tie him up outside the barn. The angry sound of hoofs beating against a metal trailer has me speeding up, taking off into a sprint toward it.
“Back up! You’re gonna meet God early if you don’t smarten up,” Otis barks, shoving Sawyer back away from the trailer.
The back is open, and I narrow my eyes on the two horses hooked up inside of it. One’s dark brown with a few spots on its back, while the other is way too similar to Diesel. The only physical difference I can see is the missing stripe down his nose and the tension corded so thick in his neck I nearly tell them to shut the door and lock it up. The whites of his eyes look at us in warning.
