I looked over my shoulder to see Mikey crossing the yard, boots crunching over gravel, the late-morning light washing his cap in gold.
“Hi Mikey. You okay?”
“All good. The boss sent me. He asked if you could take Dreamy over to the camp paddock. Bertie’s going over there, and he wants to try her on him.”
My chest sank as I let out a slow breath. Dreamy had been skittish the last couple of days, nerves flickering under his coat like live wires. It had been three steps forward, two steps back since the fire. I’d honestly thought we’d gotten through the worst, but yesterday he wouldn’t even let me near him to brush him.
“Sure, give me five to finish up here.” I nodded toward Maverick.
Mikey smiled but didn’t leave. He rocked on his heels, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What?”
“I’m delaying going back. All three of them are over there and they’re not in the best of moods.”
That got my attention. I turned from the stall, hay brushing my boots. “They’re not? How come?”
“The guy who paid for the fire to be started is in court today.”
“That’s good, right?” I gently draped a blanket over Maverick’s back, smoothing it like a comfort I couldn’t quite give myself.
“I think he’s got some high-flying lawyer. They’re worried he’s going to get off with it.” Mikey came over and gave Maverick’s nose a rub, his voice quieter. “I don’t think the boss will ever get over losing Ariel.”
“It must have been horrific.”
Mikey’s whole body tensed. “It was. I never want to go through something like that again.”
The weight of his words settled over me. The scent of hay turned bitter in the back of my throat, my skin prickling with the thought of flames and smoke, of screams and ash. My eyes stung. I suddenly needed to hug Dreamy, to do something, anything, that felt like comfort.
“I’ll go and get him and take him over,” I told Mikey, clearing my throat. “Can you give Mav some water, please?”
“Sure will.” He threw me a salute and grabbed the bucket.
As I made my way to Dreamy’s stall, butterflies started to take flight in my stomach, their wings sharp and fluttering. I didn’t know whether it was because of the expectations of my horse, or the expectations of my heart.
Dreamy snickered the moment his hooves hit the grass, tossing his mane as if to shake off memory. He kicked his legs with the unfiltered joy of being out in the open, no starting gate, no jockey on his back demanding more speed.
He may have come from good racing blood, but it was clear. Dreamy’s soul belonged here.
“Good boy,” I whispered, scratching his chin, feeling the scuff of his bristle and the warmth of his breath. The touch grounded us both.
As we approached the camp, the shape of the three Miller brothers came into view. My eyes went to Wilder first, always.
He stood at the fence, shoulders hunched, head bowed low. He looked like he was holding up the whole damn paddock with the weight of whatever was crushing him. Nash and Gunner were nearby but apart, stiff postures, clipped gestures.
Tension twisted through the air like barbed wire.
My spine straightened.
Were they at odds with him?
The protective instinct was immediate. I didn’t even try to fight it. My insides ached, my stride quickened, and I urged Dreamy forward. Any notion I had of keeping my feelings hidden evaporated. If Wilder needed support, he had it. If he needed someone to hold him steady, I would be that.
But when he turned to face me, my feet almost stopped.
His expression was blank. A mask of nothing. Not the grief I expected. Not the frustration. Just a cold, carved-out absence.
Nash and Gunner, on the other hand, looked like their blood was boiling.
