Page 77 of Lawless Rivals

She nods toward the outside. “Then you’re with me. We’ve got a new horse coming to the yard.”

The next few hours blur into rhythm and sweat.

I strip each stall down to rubber matting, shoveling damp shavings and wheeling the squeaky barrow back and forth. When I spray the stalls clean, the hose runs cold against my hands, the water sluicing hay and dust toward the drain.

My arms begin to ache, and I pull off the sweatshirt, revealing a thin t-shirt that clings to my damp skin.

After I brush the water away, I spread fresh shavings in even banks along the walls and smooth the center flat with the back of the fork, then stagger to the wall and lean my back against it.

I’ve mucked out plenty of times in the past, so this isn’t new to me. However, we have staff who do the daily rounds at the Harrington estate.

I swipe the back of my hand over my brow and steady my breathing.

Sera appears with a bottle of water and tosses it toward me. “Here.”

I catch it against my chest, twist the cap off, and drink, water leaking down my chin.

“Thanks.”

She steps inside and walks the perimeter of the stall, boots scuffing through the clean bedding, testing the depth with the toe of her boot.

“That’ll do,” she says, pulling out a cling-wrapped sandwich from her wax jacket pocket and handing it to me. “You’ve got ten minutes. Don’t leave the barn.”

When she steps back into the aisle, I slide down the wall to sit on my haunches, shoulders burning, thighs trembling now that I’ve stopped.

I unwrap the cheese and mayo sandwich and eat without looking up, listening to the clip-clop of a horse being led outdoors, metal chains clinking and men talking.

I’m chewing the last mouthful when the sound of a heavier engine rolls into the barn.

My pulse spikes, thinking Saint’s returned, and then I curse myself for being so hopeful. He left in his truck, not a horse transporter.

Air brakes hiss as a truck reverses into position outside, the beeping noise loud.

Before I see it, I hear the horse inside.

A violent thud reverberates through the metal box, followed by the scrape of iron shoes striking steel.

I get to my feet and head outside, where the truck’s suspension rocks under the force of the horse inside. The driver climbs down from the cab and rolls his shoulders.

“It’s been a long drive,” he tells me.

Another heavy bang reverberates through the metal box.

The ramp lowers, chains rattling as it drops into place, and the stallion’s labored breathing carries through the narrow compartment before he kicks out again.

“He’s been boxed for too long,” Sera says as the stable hands gather. “If he gets injured as we offload him, Saint will be pissed.”

One lad slips inside, keeping low and to the shoulder, and frees the quick-release knot. The rope comes loose, and the horse tosses his head.

While they work to get the stallion out of the horse trailer, I stand where I am and watch how Sera commands the situation.

She moves with quick, economical gestures, her voice strong so the men listen when she speaks. I guess that comes from growing up with three brothers.

Envy twists low in my stomach. Fionn and I get along, but our father raised us differently. My brother was taught to command men. I was taught not to question them.

The stallion tears across the round pen, muscles bunching under his dark coat as he kicks out, burning off the last of the trapped journey. He rears once, striking the air, then lands hard and circles again, neck arched high.

Sera stands beside me with her arms folded, watching without blinking.