The familiar smell of horseshung in the air, hay and sweat and salt. These stables were always clean, and I’d obviouslygotten here too late in the day to help with that.
Tomorrow, I’d be back atwork.
That… that thought wasn’t sobad.Thatpart, I likedthe idea of. Good honest work. Hanging out with Grandma, who despite her agewas fitter than I was, and always had been.
Logan would have lookedgreat in a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, left hanging open to reveal a whitet-shirt underneath, stretched tight over solid muscles.
I stood back while theyworked on the stall door. Biscuit watched from the next stall over, eyes bored.
This was a perfect moment.Exactly the life I’d always wanted.
I wished I could bottle itand keep it forever.
“So Logan,” Grandma began. “Iknow what you do for a living, and I know you have your own car. House?”
“I rent,” Logan said. “InSacramento.”
“But you’re not from there.”
“No ma’am,” Logan shook hishead. “New Jersey. Little town on the coast.”
Grandma hummed. “Ex-wife? Kids?”
Logan shook his head again. “I have a niece.She’s three.”
“That’s a nice age,” Grandmasaid. “Do you drink? Smoke? Gamble?”
It’d taken me until now tofigure out what she was doing. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, horrifiedthat she was interrogating Logan.
“Grandma—”
“It’s okay.” Logan shot me asmile. “Drink sometimes, never smoked, make the occasional bet with a friend,normally lose.”
Grandma chuckled. “And you’rehonest,” she said. “How do you feel about horses?”
“First I’ve had the chanceto find out,” Logan admitted. “I think I need to worry more about how they feelabout me.”
I snorted as Biscuit nudgedLogan’sshoulder.
It was strange to see justthe one horse in the stables. I was used to seeing a dozen or more. We had roomfor thirty.
I understood now whatGrandma meant. Things had fallen a long way from whenshe’dbeen in charge,when I was little.
Dad had only had a few yearsof really seeing to the day-to-day running of things, and then he’d decided toretire and passed it all on to Maisie.
She’d never really cared abouthorses, I thought. She liked the pretty ones, the ones we could show, and shecouldride. She rodewith incredible posture, but she never looked comfortable.
I’d never win any equestrianprizes for my own riding posture, but Grandma had told me once that I rode likeI was one with the horse.
I liked that. If I had topick, I’drather feel like I was workingwitha horse than that it wasworkingforme. They were beautiful creatures, and they deservedrespect.
Grandma got that. I gotthat. Maisie, I thought, didn’t. Probably because she wasn’t clear on theprinciple of respect. Obedience, sure. Getting her own way? Definitely. But notrespect. She didn’t seem to knowhow that worked at all.
“Horses like honest people,”Grandma said. “And they can tell if you’re afraid.”
“I’m not,” Logan said.
“I know.” Grandma nodded. “Idon’t think you’re afraid of anything much.”
