This morning, I was terrified of what their parents would see when they looked at me.
But I should have known better.
Those people are where my boys learned to love.
And now, somehow, that love is mine too.
Chapter eighteen
Beau
Duke.Come.On.You’rekillin’ me today, bud.”
My big chestnut Morgan huffs like he’s personally offended by the accusation, his warm breath puffing against my shoulder while I’ve got his front hoof propped between my knees.
I swipe the back of my wrist across my forehead, smearing dirt instead of actually helping. “You weigh half a ton. The least you can do is pretend this isn’t a personal attack on me.”
Duke flicks an ear. Unimpressed by my tone.
Dick.
The barn smells like hay and leather and that clean earth scent that only comes from hard work and animals you love. Sunlight slants through the high windows, catching dust in lazy golden beams. My tools are laid out beside me—hoof pick, rasp nippers, hammer, and a fresh shoe already shaped close to his size.
Behind me, a few stalls down, I hear singing.
It’s soft, off-key, and completely unbothered.
I grin without meaning to.
Abigail’s cleaning Duke’s empty stall, and from the sound of it, giving a full concert to an audience made up of the rest of the horses.
I shift Duke’s hoof slightly, bracing it against my thigh. “If you yank that away again, I swear I’m trading you in for a goat.”
He stomps once in protest before I glance over my shoulder. “Hey, Abs! Wanna grab a handful of treats and come help me quick? This stubborn ass doesn’t wanna cooperate today.”
Her singing stops mid-line. A second later I hear the rustle of grain and the light scuff of her now well-worn boots as they walk toward me.
She ambles into view with a fistful of peppermints and a smudge of dust on her cheek. “Are we talking about Duke or you?” she asks sweetly.
“Real funny,” I mutter.
She steps up to Duke’s head, sliding her palm down the blaze of white between his eyes. “Hi, handsome boy,” she coos. “Are you giving daddy a hard time. That’s not very polite.”
Duke immediately relaxes.
Fuckin’ traitor.
While she distracts him, I get back to work. First I use the hoof pick to clear out packed dirt and debris from the sole, making sure everything’s clean so I can see what I’m doing. Then, I carefully pry the old shoe loose, easing each nail free so I don’t crack the hoof wall.
Abigail feeds Duke a treat with each step. Praising him as if he’s performed a heroic act rather than just standing still.
“There you go,” she murmurs. “You’re doing such a good job. Best boy in the whole barn.”
“I’m literally the one doing the job,” I point out—because apparently I’m jealous of a horse now?
She ignores me completely. “Don’t listen to him, Duke. He’s just grumpy because you like me more than him. Seems to be the theme around here.”
I snort and grab the nippers, trimming excess hoof growth with steady squeezes. The sharp clip echoes through the barn.
