Then, like he's made a decision, the colt takes a step toward me. Then another. His head comes down slightly, ears forward, and when he reaches me, he lowers his muzzle until I can feel his breath on my hands.
I reach up real slow, giving him time to think about it, and touch his face just above the nostrils. When he doesn't jerk away, I slide my hand up to his forehead, then down his neck and feel the fight go right out of him.
"That's it," I say quiet-like, something settling in my own chest as he decides I'm all right. "Just trying to help you sort out who you are, boy."
From the fence, I hear Kit huff out a breath that might be frustration or might be grudging admiration. "Show-off," she mutters.
When I look over, she's pushing away from the fence, headed back toward the main house with her shoulders set in a line that screams wounded pride. Kit hates being wrong almost as much as she hates being told what to do, and today she got a double dose of both.
Grandpa’s headed back into the barn without a word.
Billy approaches the fence. "You good? I got chores to do."
"Yep. Thanks for your help." I slip the halter over the horse's nose and lead him toward the barn, the rope loose in my hand. He follows like we've been partners for years instead of minutes. I’m not going to ask any more of him than that today and it’s time to put him up.
I spot Grandpa standing with his hands braced on the stall door, studying something inside with the intensity of a man evaluating livestock at auction.
I move closer to see what's captured the old man's attention. Inside the stall stands a mare that I've never seen before. She's a barrel horse, no question about it. Built lean and athletic, with long, straight legs made for covering ground fast and the kind of heavy muscling through her hindquarters that speaks of explosive speed and the ability to turn on a dime. Her coat is like burnished copper, and she's got four white socks and a blaze that runs perfectly straight down her face.
"What, are we into barrel racing now?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. The colt pricks his ears and sniffs the air towards the mare. "Why'd you spend money on that thing?"
It's not that there's anything wrong with barrel racing—we just wouldn’t have much use for a horse like that. We're cattle people. This mare is built for a completely different kind of work than anything we've ever done here. Maybe Kit wants to take up barrel racing.
Grandpa doesn't look away from the mare. "Hmm," he grunts, which is about as much response as I'm going to get until he decides what he wants to say.
I lean against the stall door next to him, studying the mare despite myself. She's quality, no doubt about it.
"You work with horses better than most men I've known," Grandpa says finally, his voice carrying that gravel-and-thunder tone that's been shaping Halloway men for as long as I can remember. "Makes no sense, you riding bulls when you could be doing something that matters."
"Bulls matter," I say.
His head finally swings my way. "You've got something real here, boy. Something you could build on instead of just surviving."
Hearing it put that way—surviving instead of building—makes something twist uncomfortable in my chest.
I do have a way with horses. Always have. It's not something I learned or practiced or earned through hard work—it's just there, like breathing or the color of my eyes. But acknowledging that means acknowledging what I'm giving up every time I climb into a chute.
Grandpa straightens up from the stall door. He turns and heads out. The colt steps sideways to keep him in sight.
"You forgot your horse," I call after him, gesturing toward the mare in the stall.
"It's not mine!" he calls over his shoulder.
I turn back to the stall, studying the horse with new eyes. The mare steps closer, extending her muzzle toward me with the kind of cautious interest that horses show when they're trying to figure out if you're worth their time. Behind me, the colt shuffles his feet.
"Well, don't you have legs for miles," I murmur, running my hand down her neck. "I bet your bloodlines could turn a man's head."
"I bet you say that to all the girls."
The voice behind me sends electricity straight down my spine. It can’t be … I whip around so fast my shoulder yelps in protest.
Kinsley.
I gape as the pain ebbs, and I take in the cowgirl standing before me.
Dang, she's as hot as I remember.
I bite back a curse.