Once I finish scarfing down the biscuits and gravy, I pay for my food and grab a few of Mrs. Mackey’s famous brownies as a peace offering to bring to Sawyer on my way back to the ranch.
I still owe her for the hangover remedy, after all. Not to mention I’ve acted like being here is some giant pain in the ass instead of an opportunity to spend some time with Pops while I still can.
Dad’s right. It wouldn’t hurt to thank Sawyer for helping out when none of the family was around to do it. And I happen to remember she has a giant soft spot for Mrs. Mackey’s brownies.
Problem Horses
Sawyer
I’m already exhausted and there’s still so much more that needs to be done today.
The goats have damaged more of the fencing, and if I don’t fix it soon, they’ll squeeze their way through the small hole that the old billy goat keeps making. Roscoe is an absolute menace.
Unfortunately, I won’t make it much longer without a break or a nap. It’s frustrating when my body betrays me like this. I know pushing myself will only make the flare-up worse. But damnit, I hate not being able to work like I normally can.
Lucifer finally allowed me to mount him, and I’m hesitant to get down. He’s still more skittish than I’d like him to be while I’m in the saddle.
I click my tongue and lead him into a trot around the shaded training arena I had built when I moved onto the property. It’s still outdoors, but I knew I’d need some protection from the sun, which is known to cause lupus flare-ups.
It’s not my ideal training space. I still don’t have a spot to train when there’s ice or snow or rain, but I’ve made it work over the last several years.
This current flare-up could have been brought on by my day out driving cattle and helping with vaccinations. I did my best to remain covered, but I’m paying the price for being in the sun now. My joints are swollen and sore, and I’m looking forward to a long, hot soak in my tub to relieve some of the aches and pains.
I hear the rumble of an old engine and glance toward the driveway to see Wes pulling up in Pops’ old truck.
What the hell is he doing here?
I don’t think I have the energy for any back and forth with Wes today.
The engine goes quiet, and I pull on the reins to bring Lucifer to a stop, preparing to dismount. The noise of the truck door slamming spooks the horse, and all hell breaks loose.
Lucifer rears back, nearly unseating me. I squeeze my thighs tight together as his loud whinnies echo in my ears. I lean forward and strengthen my already-tight grip on the reins while my sore joints protest.
“Woah. Woah.” I try to soothe in a gentle tone, but it’s no use now that he’s been set off. He rears and bucks, trying to get me off his back any way he can.
A muttered “shit” from the fence pulls my focus for a split second, and then my butt is out of the saddle. I drop hard on my tailbone. The air is forced from my lungs on impact with the hard dirt, and I try to get my bearings.
I don’t have the chance to react because Lucifer is frantically tearing around the arena, desperately searching for an escape. Before I can fully register what's happening, he’s circled the pen and is charging right for me at a mad gallop. There’s no time to get out of the way, and I’m convinced I’m not walking away from this without at least one broken bone.
A strong hand clamps onto my bicep and yanks me out of Lucifer’s path just in time. I don’t have the chance to say a word before Wes steps in, seizing Lucifer’s reins with a steady grip. His voice takes on a soothing lilt, and though the horse resists at first, he doesn’t fight for long. In mere moments, Wes has him under control.
Once I’ve assessed that I’m not hurt, I dust myself off and skewer Wes with a dangerous glare. He doesn’t notice since his attention is still on the horse, so I huff out an exasperated breath and walk over to where he’s talking to the big black demon like it’s the sweetest baby he’s ever seen.
I let my lips tip up into a smile despite myself. Most people wouldn’t want to go near a horse they just saw throw a rider and if they did, many would try to wrestle it back into good behavior, which would have set him off more. But Wes uses a calm voice and a gentle hand to ease the horse’s anxiety. Whether it’s intuition or something Pops taught him as a child, I don’t know. Maybe a bit of both. But watching him with Lucifer has something inside me warming a fraction.
Wes’ hands soothe the horse, and I wonder what those hands might feel like on my skin. It’s pathetic that watching this man with my horse is making my skin flush and my stomach flutter—evidence I’ve been single too damn long.
Wes glances back at me, and I turn my expression into a seething frown.
"Are you hurt?"
“Are you trying to kill me?” I ask.
“How was thismyfault?” His voice is still quiet, but his expression has gone from tranquil to petulant in an instant.
“You slammed the door, and it startled him.”
He winces. “Oh.”
