Fred and Melva were miniature Clydesdales, like the ones in Budweiser commercials. As I stepped toward them, they shifted their weight uneasily, causing the bells on their harnesses to jingle riotously.
“People say dogs are a great judge of character, but horses are better. You can trust a horse,” Tyrone said.
Uh-oh.
“These guys are part of the Christmas fair. I’ve got a whole thing going on. I was going to give you a private tour last night, but tonight, you’re going to have to see it with the whole town. It’s a lot of work, but it helps pay the bills.”
“And here I thought you were just living off patent money,” I teased.
“Money’s tight right now.” From the way he said this, I could tell there was more to the story, but I didn’t want to push too fast too soon.
“Hello, sweeties!” I called to the horses in my friendliest voice. Fred’s whiskers and soft breath tickled my palm as he whuffed a big, soft, horsey breath. Once he got a noseful of my scent, he jerked his head abruptly and snorted loudly in objection. His neighs sounded almost like a cry of alarm. Maybe they were.
The whites of Fred’s eyes were showing as he stomped his hooves. I knew what was going on: Fred was telling Melva to watch her back.
Tyrone peered into the dimly lit yard, looking for whatever was setting Fred off. “Did you say a coyote bit that inspector?”
“I think so.”
“Something’s got the horses spooked.” He pulled a flashlight out of his pants pocket and shone it into the darkness. “Once horses get a whiff of a predator, they get skittish.”
I gulped.
“The scent of blood makes them lose their cool completely,” he said. As if on cue, Fred and Melva jerked their heads harder and started sidestepping away from me.
He scanned the tree line with obvious concern. “You’ve got something dangerous on the property.”
A vision of Heaven sinking her fangs into Wayne’s neck flashed across my mind.
“Coyote-wolf hybrids are more common these days.” Taking my hand,he said, “Don’t be scared. It’s part of living in the country.”
Tyrone almost seemed excited by the prospect of a man-eating coyote. It was as if he’d been waiting to step into the role of protector. “I never go out without a sidearm,” he said, patting a lump under his jacket that I hadn’t noticed before. “If something does attack, we’re safe.”
Ha. I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, but it was nice to pretend. I could play the damsel in distress.
“Let’s get you a hot chocolate. The horses will calm down.”
He helped me climb into the sleigh and sat down next to me. Our thighs pressed together in a way I wanted to repeat without so many layers.
“Hyah!” he called, and flicked the reins.
The horses trotted down the street, the clip-clop of their hooves muted by the newly fallen snow. They were calmer now, probably because the wind was blowing my scent in the other direction.
Then the wind shifted and the horses started moving at a brisk trot. “Whoa,” Tyrone called. “Whoa, Fred. Whoa, Melva.” The faster they ran, the more steam billowed in the cold air. I could barely see the road through the cloud of hot horse breath. He turned to me. “I’ve never seen them this spooked before.”
Five minutes later, we arrived at St. Nicholas Farms.Nightly Christmas fun! a sign proclaimed.See Santa, meet the reindeer, get a world-famous christmas tree! The parking lot was bustling with families walking back to their cars with Christmas trees. Others were pulling in, decked out in their winter gear to see Santa and drink hot chocolate.
The businesses open past eight in Valentine made for a weird social life: the tavern, the hospital, emergency services, and the Christmas tree farm.
Tyrone brought the horses to a stop in front of a bright red barn decorated with garlands and oversized wreaths.
“Something’s got ’em spooked,” he reported to one of the workers. “Give them each a feed bag and curry them down for a minute beforewe take them on any more rides.”
“Sure thing,” said the worker. “Who’s this here?”
Tyrone slung an arm around my shoulders. “This is Tiffany. I’m taking her on a VIP tour.”
I preened. “How VIP are we talking? Do I get Santa to myself?”
