Page 62 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

Lionel studied the animal with immense seriousness. “What is she doin’ now?”

“Listenin’,” Edward muttered. “She hears somethin’ out in the yard. Rain comin’, likely.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “How do ye ken she hears rain?”

“Because I hear it too.” Edward turned on his heel toward the next stall. “Pay attention to what the animals ken before ye decide what ye ken yerself. They’re usually ahead of ye.”

Lionel scrambled after him, dropping two paces behind now, his boots slightly more careful on the stone. He tucked his small hands behind his back, locking them together in a direct, unconscious imitation of Edward’s posture, entirely unaware of the mirror.

Edward looked down, his throat tightening, finding it difficult to look at the boy directly for reasons he could not have named.

“Tyler says ye were the best swordsman in three clans when ye were young,” the boy offered to the shadows.

“Tyler says a great many things,” Edward replied.

“Was it true?”

“I was fast,” Edward said. “Fast matters more than strength. Strength runs out on a long hill. Speed is a habit.”

“I want to be in yer guard,” Lionel said. The words came out simple and flat.

“Ye are nine.”

“I will be ten in the spring.” He paused, his small chin hardening. “Duncan says he’s nearly ready, and he’s only fifteen.”

“Duncan has been nearly ready for two years.”

“So there’s a precedent,” Lionel said. Edward was nearly certain the boy had practiced the word in the mirror.

They reached the last stall on the right aisle. Occupying it was a black colt, young, raw, and difficult. Edward had spent six slow weeks being patient with him. The colt was finally beginning to come around.

Edward unlatched the iron gate. The colt’s head snapped up instantly, its ears pinned back flat against its skull, its weight shifting onto its haunches.

Lionel moved toward the opening. He moved with a child’s sudden speed, without calculation, drawn blindly by the sleek animal in front of him, his hand already reaching through the gap.

Edward’s arm shot out. He grabbed the boy’s wool shoulder and yanked him back in one swift, smooth motion, driving his massive frame between Lionel and the gate, his body physically blocking the space the boy had just taken. The colt’s head lunged downward and snapped sideways, its teeth bared, the violent motion it had been winding up completing itself against thin air.

Lionel had not made a sound. He was suddenly just a small weight behind Edward’s hip, his fingers white from gripping the thick wool of Edward’s jacket.

Edward did not flinch. He stood square, his weight balanced, his breathing deep and forced into a slow rhythm as he faced the colt, waiting until the animal’s ears flicked forward, until its tight jaw unclenched, and the ugly, rigid tension drained from its neck.

Only then did the Laird exhale.

“Ye daenae approach a horse from the front when ye daenae ken him,” Edward said, his voice dropping an octave without turning around. “Ye come to the shoulder. Always. Come alongside where they can see ye without feelin’ trapped.”

Behind his back, a tiny voice cracked. “Aye, me Laird.”

The sound was softer than anything Lionel had said in the last twenty minutes. Edward glanced over his shoulder at him. The boy was pale but standing straight, his jaw clenched.

Edward turned back to the black colt. He slowly raised his right hand, keeping his palm low and unthreatening, and waited. The colt’s nostrils flared, drawing in scent. It stretched its neck forward, inch by inch, until its wet muzzle touched Edward’s open palm. It stood there. It breathed.

“There,” Edward murmured.

After a heavy beat, Lionel’s ragged breathing evened out behind him.

“Can I try?” the boy whispered.

“Another day.” Edward let his hand drop to his side. “When ye’ve watched him longer. Ye cannae rush an animal that’s learnin’ to trust. Push too fast, and ye lose every single thing ye’ve built.” He slammed the iron latch into place. “That’s true of most things.”