Because she looked happy. Relaxed.
Not worried about a stalker or watching over her shoulder.
Just happy.
They unloaded Flint and moved through the crowded grounds together before eventually finding seats inside the auction barn. Giant fans pushed around thick hot air to cool people packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the metal roof.
Summer leaned closer when another horse trotted through the ring. “How does anybody understand the auctioneer?”
“They don’t.”
“That feels illegal.”
Pope laughed quietly under his breath. Hours passed before Flint’s turn finally came, and Pope led the horse into the ring as Summer watched from the stands.
Nerves crawled low in his stomach. This wasn’t about money. It was about letting go. It was part of his therapy to train the horse he was so fond of. But taking Flint to auction would be a step toward letting go of things that happened before he came to the Black Heart.
Flint moved beautifully and bidding climbed steadily higher. Pope barely heard the numbers—he watched the horse instead, seeing months of work and trust and early mornings standing tall and proud in the ring.
Then the hammer dropped.
“Sold!”
The sharp ache in his chest surprised him more than he expected.
Afterward Pope stood near the office filling out paperwork and waiting on the check as buyers and sellers crowded around the holding area.
That was when he noticed the little girl, maybe eight years old with a blonde braid and dusty pink boots.
She stood beside Flint, practically vibrating with excitement. She reached up to pet the horse’s neck with the gentlest touch.
Summer let out a soft gasp from beside him. “Her father won that horse for her!”
Pope’s throat constricted. The little girl reminded him of Navy right down to her cowgirl boots. It was obvious that horses were her life.
He sent Summer a look. She gave him a small nudge.
“Go on. Talk to them. I’ll stand right here by the lemonade stand.”
He squeezed her hand and walked over to the father and little girl.
“I call him Flint. But you can name him whatever you’d like.”
The girl smiled so big it punched straight through the heaviness in Pope’s chest and suddenly selling Flint didn’t feel nearly as bad. The horse wasn’t disappearing into some uncertain future.
He’d be loved. Spoiled too—that much was obvious. And ridden by a little girl already looking at him like he hung the moon in the Wyoming sky.
He straightened slowly and glanced toward Summer to share the moment with her.
She stood off to the side near the lemonade stand, watching a pair of tiny goats parade past.
Warmth settled low in his chest at the sight.
The father asked him another question about Flint’s training, and Pope told him what he needed to know. Only a minute passed. Maybe two.
Then instinct prickled sharply across the back of his neck.
He looked toward the lemonade stand.
