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Pops wouldn’t give up and sought advice from the best equine veterinarians worldwide. During one such phone conference inside his barn office, Pops heard Brutus neighing from his stall, followed by childish giggles. Finnigan had dropped the phone, run toward the sounds, and discovered his five-year-old grandson had scaled the door to get inside the cantankerous horse’s stall. He watched in frozen horror as Finley reached his tiny hand up and stroked Brutus’s front leg. Instead of nipping at the boy as he did with the adults who tried to touch him, Brutus rubbed his muzzle against Finley’s cheek.
And that’s when Finnigan knew his grandson had a special gift. Going forward, Finley was present anytime Pops worked with the horse. After months of patient nurturing and trust-building exercises, Brutus cooperated with his training. The gorgeous stallion wasn’t destined for the racetracks, though. Pops bought the horse from his client as a birthday present for Finley, and the two had been inseparable until the cherished horse died of old age. Nellie, a blue roan Appaloosa, reminded Finley of Brutus. And just like that, his frustration with his newest foster horse deflated like a balloon.
“I’ve met a beast who doesn’t want to be tamed,” Finley corrected. “I haven’t convinced her I’m a friend, not a foe.”
“Not everyone wants to be tamed.” Hope’s voice was gentle, but her gaze was pointed. She wasn’t just talking about Nellie or any horse. She meant the broken guys Finley kept trying to fix and turn into boyfriend material. How many times could a person get bitten before they learned? His mother hadn’t asked the question out loud, but he could see it shimmering in her empathetic gaze.
He wore the scars on his skin like a badge of honor. They represented the horses he’d rehabilitated through their trauma to flourish. The wounds on his heart caused by men were a different story. They cut much deeper and hadn’t healed. Those were a source of embarrassment for him and the catalyst behind his self-imposed relationship detoxification. The thing was, Finley could give up on men much easier than he could on the horses. His battered heart recognized Nellie was exceptional, and he couldn’t walk away from her. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t get pissed when she tried to rip out a chunk of his ass again. It had been a daily occurrence since Nellie had arrived. When she got close enough to rip his back pocket off his jeans, Finley knew he needed to get creative.
“Message received and appreciated,” Finley said softly. “I’m not trying to break her spirit.”
His mom’s mouth quirked up to one side. “But you’re digging in your heels.”
“Yes, ma’am, and I think you could help me.”
“Me? The horse whisperer gene skipped me, my love. What advice could I possibly give you?”
Finley gestured to the row of essential oils on display. “Which one produces calm vibes?”
Both brows went up this time. “Didn’t you once refer to my oils as hokum?”
Finley chuckled. “I was young and stupid.” And he’d heard the word onThe Big Bang Theoryand wanted to use it. Riling up his mama had just been a bonus.
“It was two years ago,” she said, “and you were twenty-three years old.”
Finley nodded. “Young and stupid. What would be the harm in using a lotion or body wash that could soothe Nellie’s anxiety?”
“None that I can think of,” Hope replied. “Lavender is the first one that comes to mind, but—”
Finley shook his head to cut her off. “Reminds me of the little soaps Grandma wouldn’t let us use unless it was to wash our mouths out after we repeated the words Pops used.” He tilted his head. “Why didn’t she wash his mouth out with soap?”
“It would’ve been a lost cause, and she knew it,” Hope replied. “I could go light with the lavender and stronger on vetiver.” She picked up a second bottle, unscrewed the lid, and tilted it toward him. It smelled like earth, grass, and lemon.
“I like it,” Finley said. “It’s worth a shot.”
They discussed the different application options for him to consider, and Finley chose hand lotion. He could apply it before a training session and easily wash it off afterward. While he perused the books on her shelves, his mother went into the back to whip up a bottle. Hope was big on mindfulness and meditation, so there were the usual books on those subjects. She’d added a few new yoga instructional books and one that looked like an old leather spell book. Intrigued, Finley picked it up and thumbed through it, realizing it was a guide on how to use essential oils in everyday life.
The front door flew open and the bells above it sounded more like a warning than a gentle announcement that someone had entered the store. Finley turned around and watched as three men entered his mother’s store. Their pinched expressions said they were looking for trouble, and Finley was ready to supply it after the morning he’d had. The men’s simply constructed brown pants and white button-up shirts identified them as members of Salvation Anew, a cult masquerading as a nondenominational church. The organization had sprung up out of nowhere last year when the casino opened, and they had made life a living hell for the residents of Last Chance Creek. They preyed on the vulnerable and misguided. They picketed, protested, and raised hell about anything and everything. Most of their energy seemed aimed at the sins of gambling, but they’d recently targeted the small businesses lining Main Street. His mother hadn’t mentioned the group had bothered her, but three representatives stood in her store, wearing matching expressions of consternation. Then again, it could be constipation, and they could be seeking a holistic remedy.
“I hear castor oil works wonders,” Finley said. “Greases up the gears and loosens things up.”
Three heads swiveled in his direction, and their calculating gazes swept over him. Besides matching outfits and dour expressions, the men had similar thick beards and closely shorn hair. The man in the middle was the tallest and oldest. He had white hair and piercing blue eyes that gave the impression he could look into your soul or possibly snatch it. The fella to his right was blond with hazel eyes and was significantly younger and shorter. The guy on the left was in the middle, both in age and height, with dark hair and muddy brown eyes.
The youngest man sucked in a sharp breath and pointed to the book Finley held. “It’s true, Samuel. There is a witchcraft book in this store.”
Witchcraft?What? The tome might’ve looked like an old leather spell book, but it was nothing more than recipes to ease headaches, soften callused feet, and remove pesky odors from stubborn fabrics. Finley opened his mouth to dispute the claim, but the white-haired man he presumed was Samuel stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Give the evil book to me, son. It’s not too late to save your soul.”
Save his soul?From using rosemary oil to stimulate hair growth? Finley pulled the book to his chest and tightened his arms around it. They’d have to come through him if they wanted to take anything away from his mama.
The younger man with hazel eyes also stepped forward. His hardened gaze softened to one of pity, and that infuriated Finley even more. Who was this asshole to look at him and judge him lacking? “There’s a better way,” he said. “Salvation Anew can show you.”
Was that the message they’d fed to Keegan, the last guy who’d broken Finley’s heart? Keegan’s mother had attended the church after losing her husband to another woman, her job to downsizing, and her only son to Finley’s evil clutches. He’d known Keegan wasn’t completely comfortable with his sexuality, and Finley had backed off when the guy had asked for room to breathe. What he hadn’t counted on was Salvation Anew sweeping in and claiming another member for theirflock. Finley had fluctuated between guilt, shame, and anger when Keegan had broken things off in a coldly written text message. Maybe he’d backed off too far or should’ve fought harder. Perhaps—
“And I can show you to the door just like I did last week,” Hope said as she stepped from the back room. She had one hand on her hip, and the other held a small brown bottle sporting a simple label. He recognized her writing but couldn’t distinguish the words from where he stood. “I asked you not to come back, yet here you are.”
“We’ll defeat you, witch,” the dark-haired man snarled.
