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“Can I help?” Duncan asked.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. You’re not in a rush to get back to Tulsa?”
He shrugged. “Guess not.”
Not knowing how to read that terse reply, she didn’t bother. As she grabbed a slow-feeder bag off the wall, she said, “You can fill this with hay after I hang it up. Then I’ll get the hose. Loose hay’s in that big crate in the corner there.”
“What is that thing?” He cocked his head at the bag.
They’d established on the ride that Duncan was a city boy without a lot of knowledge about horses or any other farm animal. “It’s a slow-feeder bag. The horse has to pull the hay out through the mesh, so he can’t gorge himself and get sick. Once a horse has starved this bad, we have to be careful how we feed him up. This way he can eat all night unsupervised without getting sick.”
In lieu of a reply, Duncan stared at her, a strange expression forming around his eyes.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. You just ... know your shit.”
“Well, yeah. It’s my life.”
Again he said nothing, but this time he went and collected a big armful of sweet hay.
They got Smoky settled, and Phoebe went up and down the stable, giving smooches and pets to all the animals housed there: seven—now eight—horses, a burro, a miniature horse, three goats, two alpacas, two cows, and one very dopey sheep. They also had flocks of chickens, geese, and ducks, but they had houses of their own. Five barn cats roamed the place like royalty and called the whole damn thing home. And there was Gremlin, a collie-cattle dog cross who was a great babysitter of their motley herd, but Gremlin was Margot’s and went where she did, so he was having a weekend break.
“All these animals were abused?” Duncan asked.
“Most of them. But Amos over there, the black with the star on his face, is my horse. I got him as a colt. I rescued Titan at auction. The goats came to me after their elderly owner died. The alpacas were in a hoarding situation, and I feel weird thinking about that as abuse, even though it technically is. But hoarding is a mental health issue, so it’s not the same thing as what happened to Smoky, for instance. Or what happened to Titan, who was worked almost to death giving carriage rides to tourists and sent to auction without a second thought once he couldn’t endure that life anymore.”
“People fucking suck,” Duncan muttered.
“A lot of them do, yeah.” Phoebe turned and smiled at him. “But not everybody. I’m pretty sure you don’t suck.”
He smiled. “Or you.”
For a moment, no longer than two heartbeats, they gazed at each other. Phoebe felt a kindling of something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
It was near three o’clock in the morning. She’d been up almost twenty-four hours. More to the point, Duncan’s plans for the night had certainly not included this adventure.
But she liked him, and she liked that kindling feeling. Also, she hadn’t been shy a day in her life. Not even a traumatic brain injury had made her shrink up—if anything, she was scrappier now. That didn’t mean she wasn’t anxious and depressed most of the time. Just that it pissed her off so much she stomped right over it.
“Hey—I know you probably want nothing more than to get back on the road and put all this in your rearview, but I’m a little wired, and there’s pecan pie in my fridge. You want to come in and have a slice?”
Duncan’s grin was big and bright and encouraging. “I’d love to.”
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~oOo~
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They closed up the stable, and Phoebe led Duncan across the yard, up the porch, and into the house.
They both pulled up short just inside the door; Vin was crashed out in the old recliner in the living room, with Mr. Orange, their giant ginger tabby, conked out in a curl on his lap. Vin’s bedroom was on the first floor, but he must have decided it was too much trouble to get his crutches and work his way there.
Mr. Orange didn’t even lift his head to see who’d come in. Guarding was below his pay grade.
When Phoebe looked back at Duncan, his frown was very direct. It said, Huh?
She put a finger to her lips and nodded toward the hall. She’d explain in the kitchen.
