The horse in the picture looks nothing like the one standing before me now.
In the photo, Thor is painfully thin, his ribs showing beneath a dull, patchy coat. His mane and tail are tangled so badly they look more like ropes than hair, and the long feathering around his legs is matted with mud and filth.
But the horse watching us from the stall now is magnificent.
Massive.
Powerful.
His coat has a deep shine to it, and his mane falls in thick waves along his neck. The white markings on his face and legs are clean and bright, and though there’s still a wary intelligence in his eyes, he no longer looks defeated.
“People see a big, beautiful horse and think it’ll be fun,” Rory says quietly. “They don’t think about the feed bill. The grooming. The hoof care. The space. The time. A horse this size takes work every single day.”
I look from the photo to Thor.
I’ve seen men neglect responsibilities before. Businesses. Debts. Families. Lives.
But there is a special kind of cruelty in letting something that depends on you slowly break because caring for it became inconvenient.
Thor shifts in his stall, and the wooden boards creak beneath the weight of him.
“Ms. Moore took him in six months ago,” Rory says. “Took a while before he trusted anybody near his feet. Can’t blame him. His hooves were in rough shape when he came in.”
I study the great animal in front of me.
Thor lowers his head slightly, watching me with dark, intelligent eyes.
“He’s not rideable,” Rory continues. “At least, not yet. He hasn’t found someone he trusts on his back. Not even me, and I’m with him for hours every day.”
“And you think it wise to allow a complete stranger near his massively powerful legs?” I ask.
Rory chuckles.
“If the big guy thought you were bad news, he wouldn’t have let you stand as close as you are.” He pats the stall door lightly. “Animals are quick and accurate judges of character.”
Thor huffs, warm breath brushing against the front of my jacket.
I look at the horse.
The horse looks at me.
“I’m not entirely certain he approves,” I say.
“Oh, he approves,” Rory says. “If he didn’t, his ears would be pinned back, his weight would shift, and he’d be warning you off. Right now, he’s curious.”
Thor stretches his nose closer, sniffing my sleeve with great seriousness.
Then he nudges my arm hard enough that I have to adjust my stance.
Rory laughs. “See? Curious.”
From the barn entrance, Olivia’s voice carries toward us.
“Mama, hurry! Mr. Maverick is about to help with Thor’s shoes, and I have to grade him!”
I hear Amelia answer, but I can’t make out the words.
A moment later, Rory opens the stall door.
