“My services are not...” he exhaled. And now he was simply boasting, “Cheap.”
“You are in high demand?”
“I’ve a list of clients awaiting a place on my roster.”
“How fascinating,” she enthused. “But do you enjoy the work?”
“Yes. I’ve a particular interest in injury recovery. And I do find it gratifying—yes.”
“Healing lame horses?”
He nodded. The fog was dissolving and a shiny, post-rain moon poured silver light on the paddock. He could see her more clearly; large eyes rapt on his face. He looked away.
“Muscle injuries,” he said, “but I’ve also worked on broken spirits—anxiety after an accident or abuse. These are animals who’d been in the prime of their lives but have become impossible to manage, or withdrawn, or easily spooked by everyday things.”
“I’ve heard of this,” she said. “In fact, some horses brought to Guernsey are spooked by the Channel crossing. Some never recover from being confined to the pitching hull of a ship.”
“I’ve been a sort of last resort for animals who have failed with other trainers. Damaged horses aretypically put out to pasture or destroyed if they cannot be healed. In the case of my clients, they may be sent to me.”
“But this isfascinating,” she said. She dropped an elbow on the fence railing and leaned a hand against her cheek. “Buthowdo you heal them?”
“Samuel had an arsenal of unorthodox techniques. He took pride in them and taught me. He was an advocate of...listeningto the wounded animal? Trying to understand what is going on inside his head, to understand his fear. After we understand, we gently coax the horse to conquer that fear.”
“Youdolove this work,” she whispered.
“Yes.” The truth. A greater truth was that Gabriel himself had been healed by horses. His guardian, Samuel Rein, had saved him, but he’d used the animals to do it. Gabriel would heal horses for no fee at all, but Samuel believed that gentlemen valued the work more if it came at a high price. And his sons needed the money for their expensive schools. The result had been a waiting list of esteemed clients clamoring for his care and healing. It was a service available nowhere else in England; honestly, nowhere in all of Europe. His clients came from around the world.
“My sister would say this about the sheep,” mused Lady Marianne. “She loves our animals; there is no better day in her view than tending the flock.”
Gabriel made no reply. He would not be drawn into a conversation about her sister or their sheep.
“But are you happiest with the horses?”
“I’ve not considered when I am happiest.”
“Come now, Mr. Rein, you cannot say that chopping wood makes you as contented as training horses?”
“I’m happiest when I am alone.”
“Solitude is not an activity, it’s a circumstance,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“But are you never lonely?”
“I am safe.”
“Safe from what?”
Not from you, he thought.
The mares had grown restless, hooking their heads over the fence, sniffing and nibbling at the pocket of his shirt. He reached for a bucket of carrots beneath the tree.
“Here,” he said. “If you want to see happiness, offer a carrot to a horse.”
“Treats?” she chuckled. “In the middle of the night? But what lucky horses.”
“People assume that training amounts to restrictions and punishment and putting an animal through his paces. That is not the work I do. The horses I train have survived some traumatic event—a stable fire or a carriage accident or cruelty from a groom. I heal warhorses who’ve seen great carnage in battle. Wellness for these animals doesn’t come from scarcity, but from abundance. Patience. Security. My first order of business is to earn their trust. I make them feel as if they’re in a safe place; that I am a safe man. I show them that the work we’re doing will benefit us both.”
