“—supplier's been cutting corners for months?—”
“—doesn't matter what Roman says if Kincaid won't pull her?—”
“—just hope nobody gets hurt before they figure it out?—”
Everyone spoke in low voices, meant to stay between them. I kept walking like I hadn't caught a word, but I had. And what I'd heard wasn't the story Slade had pitched me about community spirit and local pride. This sat underneath that… compromises… risks… people making calls they weren't entirely comfortable with.
I turned the corner past the last row of pens and stopped. Roman was working with the mare again inside a smaller enclosure. She was calmer than she'd been earlier, making slower circles and not moving as fast. Roman stood near the center, letting her orbit him without crowding her space. He had one hand loose at his side. The other held the lead rope with just enough tension to keep them connected.
I leaned against the rail and watched.
He knew I was there. I could tell by the way his shoulders shifted slightly before his attention went back to the mare. She came closer, paused, then moved past him in a wide arc.
“She looks better,” I said.
“She's figuring it out.”
“Is Slade going to pull her?”
“That's his call.”
I watched the way she kept checking back to him, recalibrating her distance based on where he stood. “Do you think he should?”
Roman didn't answer. The mare completed another rotation, moving slower now, and he turned with her, his body angled just enough to guide her without being intimidating.
“People don't like being told their plan won't work,” he finally said.
“Even when it won't?”
His jaw tightened. “Especially then.”
I filed that away without writing it down. He wasn't just talking about the horse. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Long enough.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's the one you're getting.”
The mare drifted closer. Close enough he could have touched her shoulder. He didn't. He waited until she chose to stay, then ran his hand along her neck before he stepped back and gave her space again.
I watched the way he moved, slow and steady, like he'd worked out a long time ago that patience was the only tool that actually stuck.
“You don't like questions,” I said.
“I don't like unnecessary ones.”
“What makes a question unnecessary?”
He turned his head, just enough to look at me over his shoulder. “When the person asking already knows the answer.”
I opened my mouth to push back, and then the mare spooked. Something I hadn't seen or heard had set her off. She lunged sideways against the lead rope and barreled toward the rail. Toward me. I'd leaned too far forward without thinking and there was no time to correct it.
Roman crossed the space in two strides. He put himself between me and the horse before I'd registered the danger, caught her by the halter and said something low I couldn't make out. She stopped. Her nostrils went wide and her sides heaved, but she stopped. He held her there and worked her down with that same unhurried focus until her breathing slowed and her weight settled back on all four feet.
He didn't look at me. His attention stayed on the horse, but his body remained between me and the danger. It took me a second to understand what that meant. He hadn't paused to weigh the risk or decide whether I was worth protecting. He'd just moved.
When he finally stepped back, the mare calm, he still didn't turn around. “Stay behind the rail,” he said.
