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She winces and holds up a hand. “Oof. Let me just stop you right there. When needed? Ew. I’m Winnie and—”
Unperturbed, I hold my hand out. “Case Michaels.”
She glares at my outstretched limb as if she’d like to bite it off as much as the horse does. I tuck it in my pocket as she narrows her eyes.
“I’m Winnie,” she repeats more slowly. “And I’m supposed to be putting you to work this morning since you turned up”—she checks the worn plastic watch on her wrist—“nearly an hour late.”
“You’reputting me to work?”
“I know.” She makes a face. “I don’t love it either, but boss’s orders. So, there’s the rake”—she gestures to the wall—“and the wheelbarrow”—I bite back a groan—“and the piles and piles of horse shit.”For fuck’s sake, I’m not an idiot. This is my ranch.“I suggest you leave Mab alone. I’ll be back to exercise her in a few, and you can sneak into her stall then.”
I open my mouth, and she whips around, her sleek ponytail swinging in my face, her maddening hand dismissing me. “Don’t care, Case Michaels. It was annoying to meet you. Have a nice life.”
ThreeWINNIE
There are two types of people in this world: the ones that think “barn” is the best smell ever invented, and those who are wrong. Joanna Gaines could bottle this up, combine it with beeswax, drop it in a refurbished tin can, and make the Target crowd go spare. It’sthatgood. And it doesn’t change! English style, western style, north or south, mountains or plains, a stable is a stable is a stable, and it always smells like coming home. Getting your shit together. Finding your center.
As I said, two types. Some people aren’t horse people. They don’t get it. Couldn’t possibly. They’ve never experienced the feeling of strolling down the center aisle just after sunrise. The soft nickering of horses, the swish-flick of their tails against solid wood, the creak as they shift, their soft noses pressing their greeting. The air is heavy and wet with the scent of freshly mown grasses, worn leather, rich manure, and decades of dust, swirling and settling in the beams of dawn. The clinking of bridles dancing in the powerful breeze of a massive fan. The scuff of workboots on packed dirt and concrete. The warm and weirdly gooey feel of slobbery lips lapping up carrots and sugar cubes.
I digress. It’s just… it’s my favorite place.
Which is why I wasn’t thrilled to hearhe’llbe here today, invading my sanctuary. Sure, he’s the boss’s kid and has every right. One might even argue it’s his duty to be here cleaning stalls and leading trail rides and exercising the stock, except in the eighteen months I’ve been working here, I’ve only ever seen Case Benton Michaelsthe Thirdin the stables twice. First, when he was looking for the specific medicine ball he prefers to use for his balance training. Second, on the day of Walker Gibson’s funeral.
Neither time did he notice me. Which was perfectly fine. I have enough on my plate. I don’t need to add “babysitting the arrogant rich kid” to the stack.
That is, until approximately twenty minutes ago when I was sucker punched with the realization of why the famous Case Michaels is being forced to slum it today.
He’s… not doing great. According to the rumors, he climbed up on the Richardsons’ corn silo drunk last night. He could have died. Sure, Case rides bulls, which is about as reckless as you can get, but despite his many,manyfaults, Case is known around the rodeo circuit for his measured brand of reckless. His singular focus on riding is one of the things that makes him stand out. In the chute, he’s all business.
He and Walker Gibson were like two sides of the same champion-worthy coin. They balanced each other perfectly. Walker was hilarious and easy and up for anything, while Case was earthbound. He kept Walker grounded and as safe as he could.
More than once, I saw Walker step up to the chute withouthis vest or his helmet or,ew, his mouth guard while Case ran after him. I wonder if it had to do something with the fact Walker was terminal and Case was in denial.
People like Case Michaels and Walker Gibson were born for rodeo. Grit in their bones, bravery oozing from their pores.
People likeme, too. Not that I would ever say that out loud and not that I could ever in a million years act on the impulse. But deep down inside, I know it’s true. Queen Mab confirms it. Camilla, my mentor and the stable manager here at the ranch, only purchased Mab six months ago, rescuing her from an auction where she was sickly thin and dull-coated. Camilla said she saw a special fire in Mab’s eyes that begged and pleaded for wide-open spaces.
It’s what Camilla said she saw in my eyes the first time we met.
And when Mab and I gallop out of the stables, we find our freedom together. No responsibilities, expectations, or restrictions. Just endless blue skies. The Michaels ranch spans thousands of rolling acres, and Mab and I have covered them all.
Regardless of my earlier slip of sympathy toward the boss’s kid, it’s not until I’m bringing Queen Mab back from her (our) workout that I remember the rodeo boy is even around. Still cleaning stalls from the look of it.
In my defense, riding Queen Mab is akin to a religious experience and often has the promising effect of completely emptying my brain of any and all bullshit.
Mab hesitates at the entry to the stables where the ground transitions from a fine gravel to concrete. It’s one of her weird quirks. She can take it at a bit of a trot, but when it comes to a slow stroll after a hard workout, she does this little stutter step, and I need to coax her through with a click of my tongue and a gentle hand to her shoulder.
I have no idea why she is the way she is, but it doesn’t bother me much. Mab runs like the wind, has the most stunning form of any horse I’ve ever laid eyes on, can turn on a dime, and seemed plenty put off by Case Michaels.
That makes two of us.
I recall the way he leaned in, all slick, holding out his hand to introduce himself as if I didn’t already know his name. Even now, I flare my nostrils and lead Mab past him to her stall (which I note is spotless, but seriously, that’s the least the idiot could do; I’m not about to give the dude props fordoing his job).
“Does the Queen approve of her quarters?” Case croons over the wall that separates Mab’s stall from a tall, dark, and handsome Thoroughbred named Jose Swervo. I wipe the scowl from my face as he pops his through the bars.
He isnot cute. Not even with flushed cheeks setting his blue eyes to sparkling. Not even with straw dust in his hair making him look like a little kid.
Mab, the traitor, nuzzles him through the iron bars. He chuckles low, and I ignore the way it makes the little hairs on my arms stand straight.
