a cooperative animal, a gentle soul. She pictured herself on his back, moving easily, her body in sync with his. The picture came easily and she wanted to mount up right there, but she forced herself to finish a full circuit of the arena.
She stopped by the gate and set her foot in the stirrup.
You can do it.
The horse tossed his head, picking up on her tension, and lifted one front foot, then the other, rearing up slightly on his back legs. He settled but the image was stuck in her head, Flash dancing, rearing, almost pulling her arm off.
She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present, and rested her head against the horse to take a few long breaths. Then she set about the work of unsaddling the horse just as she’d unsaddled Flash all those years ago. It was bright daylight now, not moonlight, but the feeling was the same.
Defeat.
She still couldn’t ride. In all the years that had passed since that dark night with Flash, she’d been right not to try. The fear was too strong, the memories too vivid. It was time to put the horse away and then go talk to Trevor. She’d had her second chance, and she couldn’t take it.
She was heading for the house when a pickup pulled into the turnout in front of the barn. “Hemsworth Farriery,” it read. “Custom Shoeing, 20 years experience.”
The guy who stepped out of the truck looked like he must have started shoeing horses at age ten in order to get that much experience under his worn leather belt. He was short but broad in the shoulders with impossibly muscular arms. The belt encircled a slim waist and almost bony hips, but his leg muscles swelled under his worn jeans. If she hadn’t known the kind of workout the art of farriery imposed on its practitioners, she would have thought he was some kind of obsessive gym rat.
As he approached, she realized his dark hair was shot with gray and his face was lined from sun exposure, like Lane’s and so many other ranchers’. Men were lucky. Up to middle age, wrinkles only made them rugged, while the shoe-leather look just didn’t work for women.
“Trevor finally hire a new hand?” The man stuck out his hand. “Dan Hemsworth,” he said. “Here to check a few feet.”
“My name’s Sarah. Who do you need to work on?” Sarah decided she’d avoid the question about hiring. She’d just help the guy, and then she’d go talk to Trevor. Find out when Lane was coming back. She’d have to stay until he returned. She couldn’t leave Trevor dependent on Emmy. So in a way, she was a new hand—a temporary one. One who couldn’t ride, but hopefully nobody needed to know that. Nobody but Trevor. She knew he wouldn’t let it go.
The farrier grabbed a clipboard from a toolbox in the back of the pickup. “I need Tally, Ollie, and Trip,” he said.
She realized she had no idea of the names of most of the horses. She’d called all the geldings “boy” and “buddy” in her head while she’d worked, the mares “girl” and “baby.”
He must have seen her confusion. “First day?”
She nodded. For some reason, she was reluctant to explain that she was just a temp. Less than a temp, really. What did you call a stable hand who couldn’t ride?
“Let’s go in and I’ll show you the ones I need,” he said.
He pointed out the horses and she led them out one by one. He worked in the alley, cross-tying the horses back near the sliding doors. The late-afternoon sunlight slanted in and bathed man and horses in golden light as he bent over and held their feet upraised between his muscular thighs, shaping their hooves, adjusting their shoes, and hammering out new ones where needed.
“I’d better take a look at Cinn too,” he said when he’d finished the third horse. “Gotta keep tabs on him. Guess they never did figure out what caused his sire’s problems, but I’m damn sure not going to let it happen to him.”
Despite the sunshine, Sarah felt a sudden chill. “What problems?”
The man shrugged his broad shoulders. “Carrigan didn’t know. Somewhere along the way the horse had probably fallen or something. There were no outward signs ’cept for the way he kicked and bucked. Took a lot of tests to find the problem, but Lane doesn’t give up, you know? He wants something, he sticks, like he sticks to a