“Agreed. I haven’t put her up on the website for adoption and I don’t plan to. She’s Winnie’s."
Fuzz snorts, and I say, “Don’t worry buddy, you’re ours too. For as long as you need to be.”
“Nathan and I have big plans for this place.” Candice clips Fuzz’s halter to a line attached to the wall, and gives him a scratch. “How does Star Mountain Horse Rescue and Sanctuary sound to you, Fuzz? You could stay here forever.”
“Is he still helping you out with all of that?” I start looking at Fuzz’s hoofs one by one. He bends his head down at lips at the back of my shirt as I do, pushing it up and down. Turns out Fuzz is just a big goof ball.
“He is. He’s competing in fewer rodeos and stock shows, but he’s still doing endorsement deals and he just landed a really good one. Some of that money will go to the rescue and will allow us to keep some horses here permanently, with no need to adopt them.”
“Good. I’m glad you found a man who loves the mission of this place as much as you do.”
I pick up Fuzz’s last hoof. Like the others, it’s looking pretty good. The canker seems to have cleared up, and the supports I built for him have held up well.
“I’ll need to replace the foam padding in the supports in a few weeks, but other than that, he looks good.” I scratch Fuzz on the neck, and his big fuzzy ears twitch my way. “You hear that? You’re nearly all better, Fuzzy.”
Candice pulls out a handful of carrot rounds and feeds them to him one by one, the happy sound of his chomping filling the air. Honestly, there isn’t much better in life than spoiling a rescued horse.
Winnieand I go over to my parents’ house that evening for movie night. We watchMy Fair Lady, and Winnie sighs and coos over every one of Eliza Doolittle’s outfits. My parents are getting more comfortable with our relationship, and they seem to be warming up to Winnie, too. My mom asks her questions about her sewing, and even agrees to teach Winnie how to knit.
In the car on the way home, Winnie talks my ear off about all of the sweaters she’s going to knit, and all of the yarn she’s going to buy.
“Don’t you have enough sweaters?” I mutter. At the moment, she’s wearing a baby blue one that looks soft and cozy.
“Jonah Smith, you know better than to question how much clothing I have. It’d be like if I told you that you have too many guitars.”
“I have three guitars, Win, it’s not really the same thing.” I turn into our driveway and park the Jeep. We hop out and walk through the freshly fallen snow, and into the house.
“Besides, I don’t really care how much you have, but it doesn’t even all fit into my house, does it?” I continue.
“I probably do need to get rid of some things,” she admits.
“There are a few donation banks for clothing at the hospital,” I offer. I set my coat down and walk into the living room to get started on a fire. “You could bring some things there.”
“Ugh, I know. But getting rid of anything scares me. And a lot of my clothing is basically evening gowns or costumes. I’m not sure it would be worth donating.”
“Costumes?” I ask.
“Yeah, like things I wore for pageants. I even made a few myself.”
“I’d like to see those.” I know how much Winnie loves fashion and I want her to know that I care about that part of her—even if my own wardrobe is almost entirely jeans and sweaters.
“Sooooo, you’re basically asking for a fashion show?” She’s visibly perked up, and a cheerful gleam has entered her eyes. “Because there is nothing I love more than a fashion show.”
“Sure, whatever you want sweetheart. I’ll be your captive audience.” The term of endearment rolls off my tongue easily. Perhaps too easily, but Winnie doesn’t seem to mind.
Winnie disappears into the bedroom, and I grab my guitar, determined to give her fashion show some decent music. After a few minutes she prances out of the room in a long black gown, covered in shining sequins. She’s wearing heels too, and walks with the same elegance and poise that she always does. She spins in front of me, the skirt flaring out around her feet, and lets out a laugh as I start strumming dramatically.
After another moment, she heads back into the room and changes, coming out in a completely different look. This one consists of a cropped workout shirt that has a jeweled American flag on it and a matching tennis skirt. She’s paired it with sneakers and her hair is in two short pig tails.
“Were you on a tennis team?” I say, still strumming, this time an upbeat tune.
“Nope,” she says, spinning around. I catch a glimpse of her purple panties under her skirt as she does, and my throat goes dry. “Some pageants have fitness wear now, instead of swim suits. Not that this outfit is much less revealing than a bikini.”
She bounds back to her room and when she returns, she’s wearing something I know she must have designed herself. Because it’s so very, very Winnie. It’s got layers of swishy, almost see-through fabric and a pink, gem-encrusted bodice.
“You made that yourself?” I ask, pausing my playing to take her in.
Winnie stops in front of me, eyes wide with surprise. “How’d you know?”
