The Henleys run a cutting horse operation about forty minutes south of Sharp—good horses, good land, a husband-and-wife team who’ve been breeding champions for twenty years and treat their animals like royalty.
Mrs. Henley watches me work every time, standing at the fence with her arms crossed and her reading glasses on her head, asking questions about angles and balance like she’s studying for an exam.
I like her.
I like that she cares enough to learn what her farrier is doing and why.
This is my third visit.
They’ve signed on as regulars—six-week rotation, twelve horses.
Word travels fast in Texas horse country, and the word that’s been traveling is that there’s a corrective farrier working out of the Shotgun Saints’ compound who’s worth the drive, if you have a few horses and don’t need a whole barn fixed up.
My client list has tripled since I came back to Sharp.
I’m booked four weeks out.
I’ve started turning down work I can’t fit in, which is a problem I never expected to have and one I’m grateful for every single day.
I set the last hoof down—a big palomino gelding with the worst medial-lateral imbalance I’ve seen this month—and strip my gloves.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder of my rig.
Lee.
“How’d the Henleys go?”
“Good. That palomino’s going to need three more cycles before he’s balanced, but he’s trending right.” I wedge the phone between my ear and my shoulder, wiping my hands on a rag. “What’s up?”
“When are you heading back?”
“Forty minutes. Maybe an hour if I stop for gas.”
“Swing by the north end of the property when you get here. Past the arena, up the hill. You’ll see my truck.”
“Why?”
“Just come.” A pause. “Please.”
The please does it.
Lee Simms doesn’t say please like a man asking a favor.
He says it like a man offering something and hoping you’ll take it.
The north end of the compound is land I haven’t explored much.
Past the main barn and the arena there’s a gentle rise that crests into a flat stretch of pasture bordered by live oaks.
The kind of Texas landscape that looks like it was designed specifically for the purpose of making a person stop their truck and stare.
Lee’s truck is parked under the biggest oak.
He’s leaning against the tailgate, arms crossed, watching me drive up with an expression I’m still learning to read—somewhere between nervous and certain, the face of a man who’s made a decision and is waiting to see if the woman he made it with agrees.
I park, get out and look around.
There’s a cabin.
