She didn't want to go. I could see it in the way her shoulders tightened, the way she glanced at Riley like she was looking for an escape route. But Riley caught my eye over her head and gave a small nod, then put a hand on Mia's back.
"Go on," her voice stayed calm, matter-of-fact. "I'll clean up here."
Mia's jaw set, but she followed me out the back door, dragging her feet the whole way. I could feel her distrust like a physical presence, a wall between us that I had no idea how to climb.
The barn smelled like hay and horse and old wood, the particular sweetness that had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. Late afternoon light slanted through the gaps in the boards, catching dust motes, turning everything gold.
"This is Buck." I paused at the first stall. "He's twelve, steady as they come. Good for beginners."
Buck, true to form, stretched his neck over the stall door and huffed at Mia, warm breath brushing the wood. His lip twitched, hopeful.
Mia held her ground. Toes angled out, already planning distance. One hand tightened on her backpack strap. The other hovered, undecided.
Buck nudged the door. She startled—just a hitch in her shoulders—then went still again, eyes fixed on his mouth, tracking every movement.
"And this is Ranger. He was my grandmother's horse. Still thinks he runs the place."
Ranger ignored us entirely, more interested in his hay.
"Dusty's down at the end. She's the friendliest. Loves apples, hates carrots. Very opinionated."
We moved through the barn, stall by stall. Mia said nothing, but I noticed her shoulders starting to relax. Her arms uncrossed, just slightly. The horses had that effect on people. They didn't ask questions or make demands. They just existed, warm and solid and uncomplicated.
Then we reached the last stall.
Honey pressed against the far wall the moment we approached. Ears flat against her head, eyes wide and white-rimmed, whole body trembling. She was a beautiful mare, chestnut with a white blaze down her nose, but you had to look past the fear to see it.
“This is Honey. She’s not like the others.”
Mia edged closer to the stall door—just one step. The first she’d taken toward any of them.
Honey jerked back, pressing harder into the boards, hooves scraping once in panic.
Mia stopped. Watched. Her head tilted, just enough.
“She’s scared.”
It wasn’t a question.
"Yeah. Someone hurt her before I got her. I don't know the details. Don't think I want to." I leaned against the stall, keeping my voice low and even. "She doesn't trust people yet. It takes her a long time to warm up to anyone."
Mia stared at the mare with an intensity that made my chest ache. Something passed between them, some silent recognition I wasn't part of.
"How do you make her not scared?" Mia asked.
"You don't make her anything." I'd learned that lesson the hard way, in the early months when I'd tried to rush Honey's healing and it only made things worse. "You just show up every day. Be patient and quiet. You let her know you're there, and you wait. Until she believes you're safe."
Mia was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached her hand toward the stall.
Honey flinched.
But Mia didn't pull back. She held her hand there, steady, not pushing forward but not retreating either. Waiting.
After a long moment, Honey's ears twitched. Just barely. Just enough.
I held my breath.
She nodded, still watching Honey, and I saw something shift in her expression. Not trust—not yet. But the possibility of it. The first crack in the wall.
