Dixon smiles. “No problem,” he says, and then his smile flashes at me. “Good to see you, Shelby.”
His eyes linger for just a second too long, warm and assessing without being crude. Appreciative. I feel it anyway—a flicker low in my belly that catches me off guard. I shift my weight, crossing my arms loosely over my chest.
Matty cuts her eyes to me, arms folded, watching my reaction with thinly veiled amusement.
We help Dixon carry his gear to the holding pen, where Cabe already has one of the new boarded horses—a tall bay mare with nervous eyes and too much energy trapped under a shiny black coat. He talks calmly to her, voice low, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“One of the stallions has been limping a bit since he got here. He doesn’t seem to be in extreme pain, so I’m hoping it’s not a fracture or something more serious,” Matty explains as we walk.
“Limping could be a number of things,” Dixon says. “May just need a good cleaning and filing.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” she says.
I stand just outside the pen, watching him work, while Matty heads to the stables to bring out the stallion in question.
“So,” Dixon says casually as he takes the mare’s back leg between his knees, “you ever think about getting back on the circuit full-time?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeats, glancing over his shoulder to meet my gaze. “That’s not a no.”
I shrug.
He grins. “I sure loved watching you compete in college. Talent like that’s rare.”
My cheeks warm despite myself. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones who deserve the praise.”
I laugh—a soft sound, laced with disbelief. “You trying to flatter me, Fisher?”
His smile turns slow and unapologetic before his eyes drop back to where he’s removing the worn shoe. “Maybe a little.”
Matty snorts as she leads the large Belgian draft horse with the unbalanced gait into the loading chute. “All right, Romeo, I’m not paying you to hit on my sister.”
Dixon tips his hat at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
The next couple of hours are spent with me, Cabe, and Matty taking turns leading horses to the holding pen and returning them to the stall as Dixon trims, cleans, balances, and shoes each one. Luckily, his suspicion was correct, and the draft horse was suffering due to overgrown hooves, resulting in abnormal balance and stressing his joints and ligaments, causing soreness.
“Thanks again, Dixon. You can invoice me for the hoof boots,” she says. “How long will he have to wear them?”
“We caught the issue early. He should be just fine in a month or so. I’ll come back in two weeks to have a look and reassess him.”
“That’d be great.”
He loads his instruments back into his truck. Tips his hat, and we wave as he drives off.
The dust hasn’t even settled before Matty’s on me.
“Well,” she drawls, hands on her hips, “if that wasn’t the most action I’ve seen you get in months.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please.”
“He was flirting,” she insists. “Hard.”
“He was being friendly.”
“Friendly doesn’t look at you like that.”
