"That's a full day job."
"Hence—" I gestured broadly at the barn around us. "Just me."
"Hate that you always get the shit end of the pitchfork."
I shrugged. "Not riding and it's what I signed up for."
He studied me for a moment with a look I couldn't quite read—something assessing in it, his eyes moving over me and then around the barn and back again. His jaw shifted slightly.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothin'." He grabbed the spare pitchfork propped against the opposite wall, turned it once in his grip. "Where do you want me?"
We worked through the last three stalls without much conversation, which shouldn't have felt as comfortable as it did. The barn filled with the familiar sounds—the scrape of the pitchfork, the thud of soiled bedding hitting the wheelbarrow, the horses shifting and blowing softly in the stalls around us. Brody worked efficiently and without being asked, moving the wheelbarrow when it got full, grabbing the fresh bedding before I had to. Like he'd done this a hundred times. Like he knew the rhythm of it.
Like he knewmyrhythm.
I noticed it without wanting to. The way he handed me the water bucket handle-first without looking up. The way he stepped around me in the narrow aisle between stalls without having to negotiate it, his hand grazing my lower back as he passed. Not grabby or performative. Just… there. Natural as breathing.
I told myself it didn't mean anything.
I was gettin' real tired of tellin' myself things.
When the stalls were done I moved on to the horses themselves—checking water, refilling hay nets, running hands along legs looking for anything that shouldn't be there. Brody drifted alongside me, stopping at each stall. He had a way with them that I'd noticed before but hadn't let myself sit with. He didn't make a production of it. Just put a hand on a neck or a shoulder, murmured something low, let the horse come to him. The animals settled under his touch the same way I did, which was an observation I kept strictly to myself.
I was refilling the last hay net when I caught myself watching his hands.
They were big, work-roughened, moving sure and steady along Speed's foreleg—fingers pressing and testing. The same hands that had been in my hair this morning. That had held my face like I was worth holding. Brody's horse had his head turned toward him, nostrils flaring softly.
I whipped my head back toward the hay net.
"See somethin' you like?"
I didn't look up. "Just making sure you know what you're doing."
"Uh huh." The amusement in his voice was insufferable.
He didn't push it. That was the thing about Brody—he noticed everything and pushed none of it. Just let it sit there between us, like he had all the time in the world to wait me out.
I was startin' to think he might.
I mademy way to the back of the barn, checkin' the last of the water buckets, when I noticed her.
Maribel stood quiet in her stall, head low, ears soft. She was a beautiful mare—dark bay with a white blaze running the length of her nose. She was still in the way a horse would be who had once been handled with great care and was still waiting, patiently, for it to resume. Her big dark eyes tracked me as I approached.
I stopped at the stall door.
She stretched her neck out slow, nostrils flaring. I didn't move toward her. Just let her take her time with it. Her breath was warm and steady against the back of my hand when she finally reached me.
"She likes you."
I startled slightly. Brody was leaning against the stall across the aisle, arms folded, watching us with a soft expression.
"She's sweet," I said carefully.
"She is." He pushed off the wall and came to stand beside me, reaching up to stroke Maribel's blaze with the back of his knuckles. The mare leaned into it immediately, eyes going half-lidded. "Hasn't been ridden in over a year. Since before Dad got sick."
I said nothing.
