Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Fox hitched Diablo loosely to a post, went to a cabinet and began gathering supplies.
He pointed toward a horse already tethered in the next grooming space. “That’s Nimbus.”
Nimbus was almost the complete opposite of Diablo. A tall, spotted gray horse with a pale mane, and wide brown eyes. He turned his head towards him and blew softly through his nostrils.
Syn approached him cautiously. “Will he uh…does he bite?”
“Nimbus? No. He’s a good boy.”
Fox demonstrated what to do on Diablo first, sweeping his hand in slow circular motions with a flexible, plastic brush he called a curry comb, along the horse’s neck and shoulder.
Diablo’s eyes slid half closed as he leaned subtly into Fox’s hand, then more blatantly until Fox had to brace his boots.
“Spoiled bastard,” Fox murmured fondly.
Diablo bumped his massive head against Fox’s chest.
Fox laughed under his breath and pressed his forehead to the horse’s. For a moment, they stayed like that, man and animal breathing together.
Syn watched them, as something quiet within him opened up.
Not sadness exactly. Maybe longing…or envy.
Syn stared at Nimbus, who stood patiently, blinking at him as if saying, ‘you gonna brush me or what?’
Fox handed him a brush. “Start at the neck and follow the muscle. Be firm but not like you’re scrubbing grill grates.”
Syn followed the instructions, mimicking Fox’s movements.
At first, he felt stupid. Too aware of the small brush in his hand and the size of the animal. But he soon found a rhythm Nimbus seemed to enjoy.
Stroke, lift, stroke.
The ache that’d been persistent in his chest became gentler with each repetitive movement of his hand along Nimbus’s smooth coat.
After a while, Fox walked to a mini fridge tucked in the corner and pulled out a Ziploc bag. He came back and pushed several apple slices into Syn’s hand.
“Here. Feed him some of these.”
Syn jerked his hand slightly. “Damn, they’re cold.”
“I know. Colder the better.” Fox fed one to Diablo. “It’s hot out. These are like sweet, healthy horse popsicles.”
Syn looked at the apple slices, then at Nimbus. “Makes sense.”
Nimbus took the first slice delicately, his warm lips brushing his palm in a strange, ticklish way. Then searched for another like a greedy burglar.
Syn was smiling again.
By the time they finished, something in Syn’s shoulders had dropped half an inch and his thoughts were quieter than they’d been in days.
They put the horses up, washed their hands at the stable sink, then walked back to the main house in comfortable silence.
Fox helped him grab his duffle from the truck and carried it inside and upstairs. He led him to a guest room with a big iron bed, a worn quilt, a view of the side pasture, and a bathroom stocked with towels and toiletries.
“You can stay as long as you need,” Fox said from the doorway.
Syn set his bag on the bench at the foot of the bed. “Appreciate it.”
“You hungry?”
“I can eat,” he admitted.
The house was cool when they walked back downstairs, rustic and well-lived-in.
It had big, exposed beams, wide plank floors, a stone fireplace, built-in shelves full of books, framed photographs, and several random trophies and awards.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, huge and warm, with two refrigerators, an oversized range, a long breakfast bar and windows overlooking the pastures.
The delicious aromas made his stomach growl.
Bull’s father sat at the breakfast bar reading an actual newspaper, glasses low on his nose, one hand wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. He had Bull’s jaw, his intelligent eyes, and the same calm, weathered authority.
At the counter, Amelia—Bull’s cook, housekeeper, and self-designated mother— chopped cucumbers while grumbling at a talk show playing on her little television on the island.
She was petite, with a cute, round faced, sun-kissed skin, and eyes that missed nothing. She wore her thick gray hair in a neat bun sitting high on top her head, but by the end of the day, more than a few tendrils had fallen loose.
“Hey, you guys remember my brother, Corbin Sydney? He’s gonna hang out here and let this good ranch living heal his wounded soul,” Fox said, reaching toward a basket of hot rolls sitting in a warmer.
The wooden spoon Amelia yanked from her apron flew through the air and cracked Fox in the back of his head so fast Syn barely saw it.
“Ow!” Fox yelled.
“Get outta my kitchen when you haven’t washed your hands,” Amelia snapped. “You know better. Don’t try to show off because you have a friend here.”
Syn laughed…again.
Fox his head. “I did wash my hands.”
“In the stable sink. That don’t count in my kitchen.”
Bull’s father turned one page of his newspaper without glancing up. “Hard head makes a soft ass, boy. Don’t know why you still ain’t learned this lesson.”
Fox wrapped his arm around Amelia’s shoulders. “Don’t let her mean right arm fool you, Syn. She’s sweet on me.”