Текст книги "Never Say Never"
Автор книги: Emily Goodwin
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NEVER
SAY
NEVER
by Emily Goodwin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidences are either products of the author’s imagination or a used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2015 Emily Goodwin
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover art by Sarah Hanson of Okay Creations
www.okaycreations.com
Editing by Murphy Rae and Kerry Genova of Indie Solutions
www.murphyrae.net
Other books by Emily Goodwin
Dark Romance Standalones:
Stay
All I Need
The Guardian Legacies Series:
Unbound
Reaper
Moonlight
The Shades of the Sea Series:
Beyond the Sea
Red Skies at Night*
The Contagium Series:
Contagious
Deathly Contagious
Contagious Chaos
The Truth is Contagious
The Never Romance Standalone Series:
(All are unrelated standalones with no reading order required)
Never Say Never
Now or Never*
Never Again*
*Release dates to be determined
To Mimi. I wouldn’t have been able to write this book without your help.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
NEVER
SAY
NEVER
by Emily Goodwin
Prologue
I flip through the photos on my phone, abhorrence growing with each swipe of my finger. Chipped gray nail polish slides across the screen as I look at the next. I inhale and look out the window, unable to get the image out of my mind.
“Do you think we’ll get there in time?” I ask, flicking my eyes back down to the glowing screen in my hand.
Mom drums her fingers on the steering wheel of the truck. She pushes her blonde hair back and nods. “We’re making good time,” she says but doesn’t look at me, doesn’t give me her trademark smile that causes little wrinkles to form around her lips. She’s not sure. We might be too late.
I look back down at the photo of the emaciated horses. “Can you go any faster?”
“Not with the trailer,” she reminds me. “And not if we don’t want to get pulled over.”
I nod and black out the screen. My heart flutters, like it always does. I reach up and pull on the necklace around my neck, a little silver horse on a thin chain.
“Nervous, Haley?” Mom asks.
“A little,” I admit. I’m always nervous. So much could go wrong on a rescue. My main concern is always for the horses, the poor pitiful animals that had been beaten, starved, and neglected within inches of their lives. Getting them away from hell and into the trailer isn’t easy. It’s scary, something new and unknown.
More times than not, when we get to them, when I climb a fence or run across a forgotten pasture and look into their eyes, they know. They know we’re there to save them. To bring them home. To give them hope.
To give them their second chance.
And also, more times than not, we’re sneaking in and stealing. Yeah, there are laws against animal cruelty, but things aren’t black and white. All the asshole owner has to do is prove there is food, water, and shelter and lie through their teeth about how the horse got in that terrible condition. They can’t know we’re coming.
“Want a shot of whiskey?” Mom asks.
“Mom!” I exclaim, turning to her with wide eyes.
She smiled. “Oh, loosen up, Haley. You’ll be twenty-one soon enough.”
I laugh. “Yeah, in a few weeks.”
“Less than one month until my baby graduates college and she’s old enough to drink. Life goes by in the blink of an eye. You’re making me feel old, kid,” she says, taking her eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at me. “There’s a bottle of Fireball under the seat. Next to the shotgun.”
I just shake my head, the smile still on my face. “Most moms don’t say stuff like that.”
That makes my mom extra happy. “I’m not most moms.”
And she isn’t. She doesn’t try to be the cool mom, the best-friend mom, but she is all of that and more. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our fair share of mom-daughter fights, but since I went off to college, Mom and I have become really close. Who knew being away from home, away from the farm would make me realize just how much I love it?
“Really, though,” she says, seriousness back. “Don’t blow these last few weeks. You’re so close to graduating and I’m so proud.”
I shrug off the compliment. “I just want to be done. Then I can start writing articles and busting balls on the asshats that abuse animals.”
Mom nods. “And you will.” She says it like she really believes it. She’s got more confidence in me than I do myself, which is typical, right? Moms always believe in their kids one hundred and ten percent. “Is Lucas still bothering you?”
“Ugh, don’t even bring him up,” I huff and run a hand through my brunette hair.
“So I take that as a yes?”
I shrug. “He just gives me the sad puppy dog eyes every time I see him. I run away, Mom.” I laugh. “I know he’s going to try to get me back, so I literally go the other direction.”
Mom’s laughing too. “Aww, my little heart breaker. You take after your mother.” She takes her eyes off the road to wink at me. “You don’t need a man yet. Just bed ‘em and leave ‘em.”
“Mom!” I exclaim in horror. “I am pretending I never heard that!” I’m smiling, but I fight the urge to barf at the same time.
“Don’t be such a prude,” she continues, just to further my humiliation. “But seriously, Hay, don’t settle. You got your whole life ahead of you.”
I nod. I agree, though I do wish for a boyfriend. My best friend Lori has been with her boyfriend, Kit, for two years now, and I’d love to have someone like that. Whatever. Mom is right, I know she is. And I’ve seen her go through failed relationships, vowing to never settle.
“Do you have homework?” she asks, switching back to normal-mom mode.
“Yeah, but I’ll do it tomorrow. It’s just a few essay questions that I have to submit online. It won’t take long.”
“Okay,” she says with a nod. “Do that first, then help me in the barn. You should study for your finals too. You only have a couple of weeks left.” I start to protest, but she holds up a hand. “The horses won’t go anywhere.”
“I can bring my laptop into the barn,” I remind her. “One of the new guys we bring home might need some company.”
“We’ll see,” Mom says. I’m tempted to look at the pictures again, to get myself fired up to sneak onto the property and save the horses. Since we still have a while to go, I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes, not meaning to doze off.
I wake up to Mom cursing. I blink open my eyes. Night has fallen, and darkness surrounds the truck as we hurdle down the gravel road. Then I see it, moments before the smoke comes through the vents and fills the truck with a distant smell that makes nerves tingle down my spine.
“Mom,” I start, sitting up in the seat. The seatbelt pushes back against me as I lean forward. “Mom,” I say again, frantic. Orange and yellow glow ahead of us, lighting up the night. “Is that it?”
Mom doesn’t answer. She steps on the gas, and the truck lurches forward. We’re still too far to be sure. My heart hammers in my chest, each beat painful, pulsing fear throughout my body.
“Oh my God,” I say when the barn comes into clear sight. It’s on fire. And I know right away that the fire was set on purpose to destroy the evidence of animal cruelty and avoid a fine.
“Call 911,” Mom says, throwing the truck into park. My hands shake, and I can’t seem to remember the passcode to unlock my cell. I yank against the seatbelt as I punch in the numbers. I only have one bar.
I dial the three numbers I never thought I’d ever call and put the phone to my ear. I get out of the truck and stand next to Mom. We’re only yards away and can feel the heat on our skin.
“Please state your emergency,” the 911 operator says.
I suck in a breath, words failing me. “There’s a fire,” I blurt. “A barn, it’s on fire.”
“What is the location of the fire?”
I don’t know where we are. Something pops and explodes inside the barn. I scream and drop the phone, ducking down. I hear the operator’s voice. How the hell can she be so calm? I reach for the phone after making sure Mom is okay.
And then I hear it.
A terrified whinny comes from deep inside the barn. I stand, pins and needles all over my skin. I don’t think. I just run.
“Haley!” Mom yells and chases after me. I duck under a string of rusty barbed wire and race around the barn. Mom grabs the hood of my jacket and stops me. “Haley, no!”
“They’re still in there!” I yell, beckoning wildly at the burning barn. “They’re still alive!”
Mom squints her eyes and looks at the barn. “Oh my God,” she says, hand flying to her chest. “I hear them!” She takes my hand and pulls me forward. We go to the other side of the barn where the fire hasn’t spread. She puts the back of her hand on the metal latch of an exterior door before pulling it open.
A cloud of dark smoke comes out, instantly burning my eyes. They water and I cough. Mom ducks inside.
“We have to be fast,” she says. “We might not get them all.”
I nod and follow her, feeling tiny hands of hesitation pull me back, trying to keep me outside. I take Mom’s hand instead and race inside. It’s so dark, the smoldering smoke blinding me despite the blazing flames. Horses, frantic, terrified, and suffocating from smoke, bang on their stalls, desperate to get out. I cover my nose with my arm and let go of Mom’s hand to open a stall.
A skeletally thin horse lies on the ground, chest shallowly rising and falling. I go in, dropping to my knees. “Get up!” I say, urging him to his feet. The horse raises his head, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second. That one look says it all: it’s too late. He’s given up and done trying. Done struggling, done fighting to barely make it from one day to the next, done with the pain. “No!” I shout and get hit with a cloud of dark smoke. I double over coughing. “Get up!”
The horse lets his head drop. I’m wasting time. I don’t want to leave him, but I have to get up.
“Mom!” Tears fill my eyes, trying to wash out the soot. I can hardly breathe. “Mom!”
I look through the smoke but don’t see her. I don’t see anything. “Mom!” I take a blind step down the aisle. Embers rain down on me. I raise my face and see glowing red. “Mom, the roof is on fire!” My heart races. Sweat rolls down my face. I spin around. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know which way is out. “Mom!”
“Haley!” she shouts back, and her voice is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Something moves toward me, something on fire. “Get her out of here!”
“Not without you!”
The fire gets closer and closer, and I realize it’s Mom leading a horse—a horse that’s on fire. Time stops that very moment. A tall black horse trots forward, her mane ablaze. Her nostrils flare and her eyes are wide, yellow flames reflecting back at me. I take off my jacket to throw on the fire. Fire burns my shoulder and I scream in pain. I push down on the jacket to smother the flames. My shirt catches on fire, the flames biting into the soft flesh on my side. I madly slap the fire out, then pat on the horse’s mane to put out the flames, sidestepping to keep up with her. I don’t even realize we are outside until my feet catch on uneven ground.
“Phoenix,” I say as the name comes to me. “Go!” Her head lowers and she coughs. I distantly hear sirens and shouting, but none of that matters. All that matters is Mom.
Why hasn’t she come out yet? I clutch my chest, my body acting of its own accord, and gasp in air. Smoke billows out the barn door—the door that’s now engulfed in flames. My heart stops. No! Mom—she’s still in there!
“Mom!” I shout, but my voice dies in my throat. Everything inside me is dry. I stumbled forward, falling on my hands and knees. The worst pain I’ve ever felt takes over, and I realize my shirt is still on fire, still burning me. “Mom!” Boards fall from the rafters, sending a whoosh of hot embers at me. I turn my head just in time to block my face. I feel heat on the back of my neck and I know it hurts. It hurts so fucking badly, yet I keep going, keep crawling forward toward Mom.
“Mom!” I collapse, coughing so hard I think I’m going to puke. Suddenly, hands grab me, sliding under my waist. I’m hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder. “No!” I try to yell. “My mom’s in there!” But my voice is lost over the roar of the fire.
Flames shoot out of the door, rising up high into the dark night.
“No!” Mom’s still in there. She hasn’t come out. “Please!” I shout, my vision blurring. Each breath is painful. We move away from the fire, but I still feel like I’m inhaling the flames. “Mom!”
The firefighter holds me tight, despite my thrashing. I reach toward the barn, toward Mom. The horse I named Phoenix stands next to the fence, trembling in fear. Half her neck is charred and raw, still smoldering. Her legs are cut up and burned too, and her tail has been singed off. She’s a fucking mess. But she’s alive. Alive because Mom saved her.
Mom.
I go numb as it hits me. Mom. She’s still in the barn. Still trapped behind burning rafters and the caved-in roof.
And she’s never coming out.
Chapter 1
The receptionist puts the straw to her cherry-red lips and takes a sip of her iced coffee, loudly slurping up the last bit. She pulls the straw out and licks off the remnants of whipped cream, then tosses it in the trash, all while I’m standing in front of her desk, waiting to be signed in.
“How can I help you?” she finally asks, looking at me from behind fake eyelashes.
“Hi,” I say back with a smile. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Weebly.”
“Name, please?”
“Haley Parker.”
“Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks,” I say and turn to look at the lobby. It’s small, with one bench and two old sun-faded armchairs that are pushed up against a wall near a window. It’s my first interview, and I should be nervous as hell. But I’m not.
I don’t feel anything.
I haven’t felt anything, not since Mom burned to death just feet from me only two months ago. I spent several days in the hospital, being treated for burns and smoke inhalation. I recovered as well as anyone could, and sometimes I wish I hadn’t. Sometimes I wish my body would break down into the same crumbling state of burning decay that I felt on the inside.
I lost Mom, the woman who had been my guiding light, my best friend, my whole life. I replay that night over and over in my mind. If I hadn’t heard the horses, Mom would still be here. If I hadn’t run to find a way in, Mom would still be here.
It was my fault. I’m sure of it.
The official reports said the fire was started by a cigarette, and it was ruled “unfortunate and accidental”. That was a bunch of bullshit. The barn’s owner, a middle-aged man named Roy Henderson, who liked to drink, set the barn on fire on purpose. He had been tipped off that we were coming to get the horses. Once we had them, he wouldn’t have been able to cover up the evidence. He’d have been fined and slapped with animal cruelty charges.
Instead, he burned his own barn to destroy the evidence and collect the insurance money. I don’t believe he meant to kill Mom or hurt me. But he meant to burn his already abused horses to death. He was a monster. I wanted him to burn. I wanted to tie him up in a stall, not feed him for weeks, then set the thing on fire. I wanted him to feel the heat on his skin, to feel the pain of his flesh melting off.
Phoenix spent weeks in intensive care. The local vet who’d been called out came intending to put her down. I refused to give up on her, to give up on the horse Mom died saving. She was taken to the clinic run by Dr. Wells, who had been our equine vet for years. Phoenix’s initial bills were paid for with donations. Mom had a lot of friends in the equine world, and when the horrific tale got out, complete strangers wanted to send me money. I couldn’t deal with it. It was too much.
Dad came as soon as he heard. He stayed with me in the hospital and stayed for another week and a half once I was released. I don’t have a bad relationship with my father, just a distant one. He lives in New Jersey; he remarried after the divorce and has three more kids. I know it was hard for him to be away from his family, but I’m glad he was there.
There was so much fucking paperwork. Seriously, can’t the credit card companies and the gas people cut you a break after a tragic event? No one prepares you for the mess that follows death. I was mourning the loss of my mother, trying to get used to not having her. My world turned upside down, and half my heart died right along with her. Some days I considered getting out of bed to shower a victory. How the hell was I supposed to remember to pay the bills—bills I’d never had to worry about before? And why are those people so greedy? I had to pay late fees on top of everything else.
With Dad’s help, I finally got caught up on payments, but I exhausted most of Mom’s savings and used all of her life insurance to pay off the house. It didn’t get easier from there. Mom worked. She had a steady income. She knew how to budget. She had deals worked out with feed stores and the vet. And she was here to take care of the horses.
Free pity labor only lasts so long. People came in floods at first, offering time and money to keep the rescue running so I could finish college. I didn’t want to; I’d missed so much just from being in the hospital, yet I was so close to graduating.
I had to play catch-up, and Lori did most of my assignments, but I did it. I’m sure I passed my finals out of sympathy. I got Cs on everything, which wasn’t bad enough to make me fail but wasn’t good enough to look like an obvious pity grade. Going back to the apartment on campus Lori and I shared for the last few days of college was hard. Everyone thought it would be a distraction, keep my mind off the burning hole inside of me. But I was numb. When I didn’t feel crippling sadness, I felt nothing.
I missed home. Missed the barn and the horses. But things weren’t the same.
I blink back tears and push my shoulders back. I should look professional, right? It’s hard to act like I care when I don’t. I don’t want this job. I don’t want to work for some rinky-dink local paper writing articles about the Petunia Festival in the spring. But, I need the money. Yeah, I don’t care about this job, but I care about being able to buy hay at the end of the month.
I clutch the straps of my leather purse—well, it’s not really mine. I borrowed it from Lori. She’s into designer labels and fashion. I wouldn’t say I’m not, but it’s never been my priority like it is for her. I look around the little lobby again. The receptionist’s desk takes up half the space. A dying plant sits on the windowsill across from me, and a few framed articles from the press hang on the wall, all yellowed with age.
My palms are already sweating from being wrapped around the black leather straps. I flatten them on my gray dress pants and wait, knowing that I look totally awkward. Five minutes tick by. Then ten. Then fifteen. I start to get anxious. I should have practiced the interview questions more. What if they ask me something and I draw a blank? I get embarrassed just thinking about it.
Just when boredom is starting to replace my anxiety, the door to the lobby opens. A tall man dressed in a muddy brown suit says my name, reading it off a paper. His expression is one of boredom, a look that clearly says he’s not interested in interviewing me. At all. Great.
I take a breath, let it out as I stand, and smile, suddenly terrified to interview. The man, who I assume is Mr. Weebly, raises his brown eyes from the paper. He does a double take—an actual freaking double take. Do I have something on my face?
“You’re Haley?”
“I am. Haley Parker, nice to meet you.” I stride over and hold out my hand. My hand with the sweaty, clammy palm. Whatever. It is what it is.
“Oh, uh, well, nice to meet you,” he sputters. His eyes run over me slowly, pausing at my breasts. “Please, come into my office,” he says, still staring at my boobs. I flick my eyes to the receptionist. Is this really happening? She offers me a half smile and a raise of her eyebrows.
I hunch my shoulders forward. Dammit. I shouldn’t have let Lori dress me, though the yellow and gray top is anything but revealing. I follow him through the door and into a large room with two rows of desks cluttered with computers, notes, papers, and photographs. I can’t deny the small rush that goes through me. Maybe I’ll have my own desk someday, filled with messily stacked papers and photos of rescued animals.
We go into his office. It’s neat and tidy but smells like fast food. Oh, that’s why I had to wait so freaking long. He was finishing lunch. He waves his hand at the leather chair in front of his desk. I wait for him to take his own seat, then carefully sit on the edge, keeping my shoulders back and trying not to look like I’m scared out of my fucking mind.
It’s just a practice interview. I need to remind myself a million times. I am not going to settle for this job. I’ll get another with a bigger press where I can really have an impact. I can share the stories for those who cannot speak.
“So,” he starts, glancing at my resume for a millisecond. “Tell me about yourself.”
I internally groan. I knew he’d ask that question. Everyone asks that question. I put on my fake smile. “I recently graduated from The University of Montana with a degree in journalism. I was active on the school’s debate—”
He waves his hand in the air. “I mean the real you.”
I relax a bit. “Uh, I like to read a lot, and I’ve been raising and riding horses my whole life.”
His eyes go back to my rack. For fuck’s sake, my eyes are up here! I’ve gained a few pounds over the last year at school. I wasn’t happy about the way my stomach jiggled or the cellulite on my ass, but the increase in cup size was a fair trade-off.
“Why the paper? I’d think a woman like you would want to be on screen, not behind it.”
I grit my teeth. Practice interview. Practice. Practice. Practice. “I’m very passionate, Mr. Weebly,” I start then immediately regret my word choice. I shouldn’t say anything remotely sexual to fuel this chauvinistic pig. “I feel that the written word can convey the message just as well, without the distraction of getting made up for appearances. The focus is on the story, not on who is reporting it.”
He just nods and glances back at my resume. “You graduated in May?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you’re just now looking for a job? What did you do, take a month off to party?” He looks at me like he’s hoping I will say yes, and it’s because he wants me to be a party girl who gets drunks and gives it up easily. Sick.
“Yes, I’m just now looking for a job, but it wasn’t because of partying.” My heart lurches. The sweat is back in full force, and it’s rolling down my back. I nervously rake my fingers through my long hair.
“What was it, then?” He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.
I close my eyes in a long blink and push the lump down in my throat. My mind races. I want to lie. But I can’t. Unlike the dead, the truth doesn’t stay buried. “My mother and I were in an accident in April. I got hurt pretty badly, and she…she didn’t make it. I needed some time after graduation to deal with everything. ”
“Oh,” he says. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes roam over my face. “When can you start?”
What? I actually lean back in surprise. That wasn’t an interview at all. “Monday,” I say, since it’s true.
“Great!” He stands. “Let me give you a tour.”
“Wait, so you’re telling me your boobs got you the job?” Lori slides the bottle of wine across the counter, her perfectly manicured nails clinking against the glass.
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, I think.” I sigh and watch the red moscato fill the glass. “I mean, I said I’d start and I filled out paperwork, but it doesn’t make me locked in. I can apply somewhere else later.”
Lori takes a drink of the wine and raises an eyebrow incredulously. “You got hired at your first interview. Get some experience before you move on and quit. And know you’re fucking lucky. That never happens.”
“I know.” I reach for the bottle of wine.
Lori snatches it back. “You reached your limit,” she says softly.
“I had half a glass,” I mutter. “And I’m not…” Ah, fuck. “I stopped taking the pills last week.”
“Haley!”
“I don’t need them. I’m not suicidal or anything, and they make me tired.”
She puts the glass behind her. We’re at my house, sitting at the island counter in the large country kitchen.
“They were prescribed to you for a reason,” Lori says. She sticks a stopper in the wine and puts it in the fridge. “And you’re not supposed to stop that stuff cold turkey. You need to call the doctor tomorrow and make an appointment. At least talk about this first, okay?”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I blink them away, not wanting Lori to see. She’s bossy, but she cares. Having her as my best friend is the only thing that has gotten me through this, and she is the only person who hasn’t put a time limit on how long I’m allowed to grieve.
“I don’t need them,” I tell her. And I can’t afford them. Not only is getting the job at a bigger press one of my goals, but it’ll pay more. “Look,” I say, because she’s staring dubiously at me. “If things get bad, I’ll take them again. But I have to face life. I have to accept things.”
Now tears well in her eyes. If she cries, I’m done for. “You can admit you hurt, Hay,” she whispers. “It’s okay to get some help.”
“I know,” I choke out. I sniffle, wipe my eyes, and stand. I push the barstool against the counter. “I have to feed the horses. Stay in here and put the pizza in the oven, please?”
She nods, knowing I need time alone. I leave the kitchen through a hall that takes me to the laundry room. I open the door and let Chrissy, Mom’s border collie, run out into the yard ahead of me, and step into the garage. Mom’s truck is there. I haven’t been in it since that day. I don’t even know who brought it back, or who took Phoenix away from the burning barn. And I didn’t ask.
Everything was just there, put back like normal. I can’t look at the truck, can’t look at the last place I saw her, the last place we talked and laughed. I never thought setting out to save a life would take hers away.
Tears start to fall freely, rolling down my cheeks. A cool breeze rattles the trees and blows the scent of hay and grain through the air. I bite my bottom lip and suck back my tears. The barn is only yards from the house. On cool nights, when the windows could be left open, you can hear the horses shuffling around in their stalls.
Shakespeare looks out the open Dutch door and whinnies to me. His call brings on a wave of emotion, and suddenly I’m running to him, throwing open his stall door and burying my face in his mane. He turns his head, wrapping me in what I can only describe as a hug. We stay like that for a few beats. It might sound stupid, and not everyone understands, but that horse is there for me. I’ve had him for ten years now, and he was our first rescue. Mom had been a riding instructor my whole life. I’m lucky enough to look back and never remember a time without horses.
Mom heard about Shakespeare’s story from one of her horse friends. He was a registered Arabian and had been someone’s show horse for years. But then one day, he wasn’t wanted anymore. After a few weeks of being for sale, his owner threw in the towel and sent him to the slaughter auction. We got him right before he was loaded onto the truck.
Now he’s mine, and I love that damn horse with everything inside me. We understand each other in an unspoken way. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, warm breath warming my back.
Then I start sobbing, salty tears dripping onto his sleek white mane. Pain stabs my chest, and I can’t breathe. I hold onto him, body trembling from the force of my tears. This was never supposed to happen. I can’t do it all like Mom had. How the hell am I supposed to rehab horses, take care of the ones we have now, and work?
I pull away from Shakespeare and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. He pushes his nose against me and I close my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper to my horse. “How many times have I run to you crying?” I ask, running my hands along his neck. Gray speckles his white coat. “Most of the time it’s for completely ridiculous things.” I take a breath and rest my head on his. “Breakups, not being allowed to go out, horse shows,” I say and feel a smile forming. “Remember that time you refused to cross the stupid bridge in trail class?”
He lowers his head and starts munching on hay. “You could do that thing backwards in your sleep, but you wouldn’t go over it. I was so mad I hung a for sale sign on your stall and asked a dollar.” I look at my old guy through blurry tears. “Then I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, Mom put a sold sign on your stall and hid you in the trailer.” I burst into tears then, horrified she had let someone buy my horse. Of course I didn’t really want to sell him. “It was her way of teaching me a lesson. I can’t make you do anything. I can only ask. We were partners, and she made sure I remembered that. And that’s what you are. My partner, my friend. We’ve been through a lot together.”
He jerks his head up and nudges me, as if to say we’ll get through this together too.
