The next four days are the same. We meet late at night, sneak back in when the sun is coming up, and pray we don’t get caught.
Thankfully, my brothers have been busy, and Momma and Daddy are so consumed with preparing for Carter’s visit—whenever that is—that no one notices my strange comings and goings.
I won’t see him for the next few nights, as he’s going to spend time with his daughter before she leaves for camp, and I’m actually relieved, because I swear, I’ve never been this tired in my life.
“Lark?” Deacon calls my name as I’m in the barn working with one of our newest horses.
“In here.”
He enters, hopping up on the fence. “Can you go out to the back field and check on the post that broke?”
I pull the lead in and grab hold of her bridle so I can stare at my brother to see whether he’s kidding.
He’s not.
“Why the hell can’t you go? I’m working.”
“Yeah, and I’ve been fixing the damn bushhog for four hours. I need a shower and to eat. Dad said he’s worried it’s cut again.”
“Is it?” I ask.
Deacon lifts one brow. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you to go check, now, would I?”
Fair point.
As if I would ever admit to him being right, though.
I sigh heavily. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Send me a text and let me know if it needs to be fixed or if the Stones have finally stopped fucking this family.”
Well, one Stone is definitely not done fucking someone in this family.
Absolutely not saying that.
“Sure thing.”
The new horse I’m working with has been doing great. I’m going to see whether I can ride her out there.
I bring her into the tack area, get her saddle adjusted, and pet her nose. “All right, girl, let’s give this a go. We’re just going for a short ride.”
I’ve always believed that horses sense energy. They are very attuned to their riders, so confidence is what I’m giving off. She and I are going to do just great.
Our ranch not only breeds horses, but we also train them. One of my specialties is working with horses who have been injured or didn’t work out on the original farms they went to. That’s what Dolores is. She went to a farm in Idaho that hoped to turn her into a show horse, only she never quite had what they wanted. Her gait is a little off when she trots, and the owners just felt she wasn’t worth the trouble.
I disagree.
Even though she’s severely neglected, I think she’s very worth the effort, and the owners were all too happy to have her off their property. I work with any horse that’s been moved toour farm, and if they’re suitable, I give them to a local camp that relies solely on donations and charity to help children with a variety of homelife issues or disabilities.
I think Dolores might be a great horse for them. She’s very sweet—she just needs a little love and attention to get through her anxiety.
She starts to shuffle when I put my hand on the horn, ready to pull up into the saddle, but I sally forth. If I give in to her, she’ll never let me mount.
Once seated, I give Dolores a second to acclimate, and then I pat her neck. “That’s it. Are you ready for a little ride?” I ask, knowing I won’t get an answer.
However, she hasn’t tried to rear or buck me off, so I’m going to take that as a yes.
I tap her flanks and guide her out of the barn.
