My journal is supposed to be for case notes, emotional processing, and the occasional rant about people who think duct tape is a medical solution.
Somewhere along the line, her name started appearing between entries about tendon strain and feed ratios.
Red watches me longer than feels comfortable.
“You’re distracted today,” he says finally.
I blink. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That was very concise feedback.”
“You walked past the sorrel with the off hind leg,” Emmett adds helpfully. “Didn’t even comment.”
I grimace. “Okay. Thatisconcerning.”
Willy grins. “Someone’s got a woman on the brain.”
I consider denying it. But before I can, a sound hits.
A sharp clatter of metal on metal from the far end of the barn, followed by the unmistakable thud of hooves scrambling for traction. It’s the kind of noise that snaps every head up at once.
Including mine.
Before anyone can swear or shout, a chestnut gelding explodes sideways out of his stall, whites of his eyes flashing, rope halter dragging loose behind him. A bad idea waiting to happen.
His ears are pinned, breath coming fast, every muscle locked into flight.
Smoke memory.
Doesn’t matter that the air’s clear now. His body remembers.
“Hey—” Emmett starts, already stepping forward.
“Don’t,” I say sharply.
He freezes mid-step.
Good.
The horse swings his head, nostrils flaring as he searches for an exit that doesn’t exist. Willy shifts his weight instinctively, ready to bolt if the horse charges.
Red doesn’t move at all.
I take one slow step forward. Then another. Angled, not direct. No eye contact yet. My hands are loose at my sides, posture open, breathing deliberately slow so he can mirror it if he chooses to.
“Easy,” I murmur. Same tone I used with the heifer. Same tone I use with people who are two seconds from making a bad decision. “You’re alright. Nothing’s chasing you.”
The gelding snorts, tosses his head. His hooves slide again.
I stop.
Wait.
Let him notice that nothing happened when he panicked.
“That’s it,” I continue quietly. “Good. You found your feet.”
