Hard. File it in the same locked drawer where I keep every thought that threatens to complicate the simple, airless life I’ve built for myself.
She sees me on the bucket outside the quarantine stall.
Our eyes meet and the air between us does something complicated—thickens, charges, develops a texture I don’t want to name.
The feed store was shock.
Ambush. Neither of us were ready.
This is different. This is deliberate.
She’s here because she was hired to be here, and I’m here because this is my barn and my rescue operation and I don’t leave my own ground for anyone.
“Lee.” Professional. Neutral. Giving me exactly what I gave her at Holcomb’s—nothing.
“Bex.”
Grace looks between us with the expression of a woman who has assessed the situation, determined that the two people in front of her are going to be idiots about it, and decided to proceed as though they’re not.
“Let’s start with the yearling,” she says. “She’s the most cooperative and it’ll give Bex a chance to see the facility before we tackle the harder cases.”
Bex nods.
All business.
She’s not nervous—I notice that immediately.
A lot of people get twitchy on a massive ranch like this, then add in the fact we’re also a MC compound.
The bikes, the patches, the general atmosphere of men who live by a code most civilians don’t understand.
Bex walks through it like she’s walking through a feed store.
Comfortable. Unimpressed.
She grew up adjacent to this world through Earl, who ran with clubs before he settled down, and through Rose, who married into one.
The compound doesn’t faze her.
Nothing seems to faze her.
That’s either admirable or infuriating, and I haven’t decided which.
The yearling is a sweet-tempered filly we pulled from a neglect case four months ago.
She’s come a long way—filled out, trusting, lets most people handle her.
But her front hooves are badly flared from months of zero maintenance before we got her, and the flaring is starting to affect her breakover and her gait.
She needs a proper assessment and corrective trimming from someone who knows what they’re looking at.
Bex approaches the filly quietly.
Not the exaggerated caution of someone performing gentleness—just an easy, natural calm that tells me she’s done this ten thousand times.
She lets the filly smell her hand.
Runs her palm along the neck, the shoulder, down the leg.
