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Noah’s parting words needled Grayson on his way through the barn.
His apartment was adjacent to an office space. The tack room door, a stall, and a storage bay filled out the rest of that side of the barn aisle.
Opposite, three stalls were bookended by hay storage and a tractor bay.
A heavy, wooden ladder in the end bay leaned against the loft, where several tons of hay were stored.
He hefted a bale into the double-wheeled hay cart, just like Noah had shown him the night before. He paused at the first empty stall and wiped away several cobwebs. The barn was still only used for quarantine and injury treatment. It wasn’t cost effective to keep nearly thirty horses stalled.
He pulled the cart out the back door of the barn toward the paddocks, where the entire herd lifted their heads and a chorus of nickers greeted him.
Yeah, they were all happier to spend their time outside too.
Noah’s words churned inside him.
It had to work out. For him and Beth. He just didn’t know how.
Sunshine filled the space, a few clouds of gnats swarming along the path. Cool morning air filled his lungs and swept him back to the many camp mornings when he’d walked the same path. He’d tagged along behind Walter and sought every opportunity to reach through the fence wire to run his hands along the sleek summer coats of the horses.
Especially his favorite. A bay gelding named Mr. Pickles. Of all things, who named a horse Mr. Pickles?
The memory lit a spark in Grayson’s heart. Picky, as he’d dubbed him, had known a few things about boys. Most notably, that boys like Grayson needed a friend. Someone who listened without judgment. Someone who loved without limits. Someone who could pull him out of the dark, lonely place inside himself after his parents died. Picky knew how to start out slow and then turn on the speed.
Grayson set his hand on a fence post, now weathered and worn. Chew marks interrupted the hewn log’s surface where a nervous horse had gnawed at it. Tufts of long gray and black mane hair caught the breeze, marking its use as a scratching post.
Tally watched him through the wire. He hoped to work with several of the horses. The forecast called for a cooler day, topping out in the seventies. That would make it more comfortable for arena work.
If he ran the camp, he’d be giving up time to get things squared away at the new place. Not to mention getting his boots dirty in all this Deep Haven business.
But if he didn’t, there wouldn’t be a camp for Eli. Whose mom was battling breast cancer. And Beth would be out of a job.
Grayson shook the rattling thoughts away and pushed the hay cart. He tossed hay into all the camp paddocks and returned to the first one, where Remington and Maverick joined him. He scratched their necks and withers. Each one leaned into the attention, and Maverick stuck his muzzle against Grayson’s chest, content to chew his hay while having his face rubbed.
Tally watched from a distance.
After ten minutes, he’d picked up all four feet on both horses and run his hands over their bodies. So far, so good.
He ventured back into the tack room and looked for a saddle wide enough for Maverick’s broad, copper-red back, then collected brushes, a pad, and bridle.
This time, he’d do it right. He brought Maverick into the round pen.
Grayson took his time, letting Maverick get to know him and watching for signs it was too much pressure. He worked him at liberty first, changing directions, bringing the horse in to him.
Like he should have done with Tally.
He put on the rope halter, and Mav stood like a true ranch horse, unflappable even when Grayson moved to sacking him out. The heavy muscling rounding the gelding’s chest and the width of his chest were reminiscent of some of the American Quarter Horse Association’s most famous sires.
Enviable conformation for any quarter horse.
Grayson had tied a plastic bag to the end of a whip he’d found in the barn and moved it around the horse, rubbed it on him, smacked the ground with it, testing the horse’s reactivity.
Maverick turned an ear. Moved his mouth in licking and chewing motions, showing signs of ease and relaxation. Interest without fear.
“Nice. You’re the real deal, huh?” Satisfaction lifted Grayson’s spirits. This was the work that kept his spirit humming throughout each day.
By the time he tacked up and swung onto Mav’s back, he had no doubt Maverick would do well.
The horse had a buttery-smooth canter. In fact, the horse was soft and responsive—maybe a little rusty, but he’d stepped right into lead changes and responded to the lightest cues. He’d done some high-level work, and Grayson ventured he must’ve been the camp wrangler’s horse.
