And an old man with cancer asked about me every time Bex walked through the door, and she had to tell him no.
Every time. For months.
I know what that makes me.
I don’t need Bex to spell it out in a feed store.
But she did. And now it’s sitting in my chest like a coal that won’t cool.
Grace finds me in the round pen around seven in the morning on a Tuesday, which means she’s been planning this.
Grace doesn’t do anything accidentally.
Everything is deliberate, every move calculated for maximum effect with minimum waste.
Including this conversation, which she opens by leaning against the rail and waiting in silence until I acknowledge her.
I take my time.
I’m working with the chestnut mare, asking her to move off pressure, using body language to direct her around the pen.
The mare responds—ears flicking, head dropping, the soft chewing motion that means she’s processing.
Good work. Slow work. The kind that can’t be interrupted.
Grace waits anyway.
I give the mare a release.
She stops, turns to face me, licks and chews. I rub her forehead, then walk to the rail.
“The bay’s feet are getting worse,” Grace says. “He’s bearing less weight on the front left than he was three days ago. If there’s rotation happening, every day we wait makes the prognosis worse.”
“I know.”
“The yearling’s front hooves are flaring badly enough to affect her gait. The paint in pasture four has chronic thrush that needs aggressive treatment and corrective trimming. And the two mares from the last auction both have evidence of previous laminitis that needs monitoring and management from someone who knows what they’re looking at.” She ticks them off on her fingers. Clinical. Precise. “That’s five horses, Lee.Fiveanimals that need specialist farrier work that neither of us can provide.”
“I’ll call the guy in Kerrville.”
“The guy in Kerrville does trail horses and backyard ponies. He’s not equipped for corrective work on kill pen rescues with structural damage. You know that.”
I know that.
I’ve known it for weeks.
I just don’t want to hear what comes next.
“Bex Dalton,” Grace says, and the name hits me like a fist under the ribs. “She trained under Earl Dawson, who was one of the best corrective farriers in Central Texas. She’s been doing this for over a decade. She recently moved back and she’s building a client list. I’ve looked into her work—she’s good, Lee. Really good. The kind of good these horses need.”
“No.”
Grace doesn’t react.
Just watches me with those steady brown eyes that see everything and judge nothing.
It’s the same look she gives a horse before she sticks a needle in it—calm, measured, already three steps ahead.
“This isn’t personal,” she says.
