my project horse right now. Just turned three and learning fast.”
“She’s beautiful,” Sarah murmured.
“Want to ride her?”
Sarah pulled her hand away and stuck it in her pocket. “Nope. I told you, I’m scared.”
“You don’t look scared.”
“It only happens when I try to get on.”
It was the closest she’d come to telling anyone about what had happened, but Lane’s phone interrupted with a loud beep, startling the animals into jerking their heads back.
“I have to take this.” He turned toward the house as he flicked the phone open. “Be right back.”
***
Once they figured out she wasn’t bearing food, the horses lost interest in Sarah and went about the usual equine business of standing in the sun, rolling in the dirt, and taking turns nibbling the itchy spots on each others’ withers. She watched them a while, then moved past a couple of empty corrals toward the back of the barn. The sun felt good on the back of her neck, and the scent of green grass, hay, horse manure, and that indefinable mix of sage, dirt, and pine that defined Wyoming brought back memories of her childhood. Some of the horses reminded her of the ones she’d ridden in her childhood—chestnuts and bays, palominos and blacks. Even the path they were walking was familiar, a dirt trail pounded flat by the passage of boots about a foot from the fence line. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she kicked away a few loose stones and followed it for a while.
She was so lost in her memories that she didn’t notice where she was until she thought of Lane and looked back. He was nowhere to be seen, probably because she’d turned the corner of the barn and made her way past the farthest corral to a high-fenced round pen set off by itself.
Nostalgia squeezed and softened her heart. She’d spent some of the most meaningful hours of her life in her stepfather’s round pen. It was where you taught horses the basics—where you taught them to trust and work in partnership. Circling the walls, she reached the gate and glanced inside. There was a horse standing in the center of the pen, staring at her. She stared back, sucking in a quick, stunned breath.
Flash.
She’d lost her mind. Or maybe she’d really gone back in time. Because this was Coppertone Flash. Once you worked with horses long enough, they became as distinct from each other as humans. No other horse reflected sunlight with that gleaming shade of copper-penny red. No other horse had quite the same breadth between the eyes, the set of the ears, the tapered muzzle.
This was no flashback, no fond memory. This was the past rising up like a ghost from the grave in the form of a horse, stamping one foot and blowing as if he recognized her. She put a hand to her forehead in a vain effort to combat a dizzy spell and the horse lifted his head, startled.
“Flash,” she whispered.
He was just as she remembered him, his coat bright, the color tarnishing gradually to black on the legs and muzzle. His dark skin deepened the shadows that defined his powerful muscles, and the copper glow gave added definition to a build that was already incredible. He was a big horse, probably sixteen hands, with the solid presence only quarter horses had. He swung his head toward her and she saw the long-lashed eyes considering her as they always had, making up his mind whether he’d cooperate today. Evidently he decided he would, because he turned and walked slowly toward the gate, taking his time, his black mane fluttering in the breeze.
She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get her heartbeat under control. Horses sensed your mood, and hers was a mixture of wonder and fear that probably echoed the horse’s feelings as he paused with one hoof raised, poised to flee.
“Flash,” she whispered. “It’s okay.” She turned her body slightly away from him and looked away, resisting the temptation to make eye contact. Stallions sometimes saw that as a challenge, and Flash had been wild and unpredictable—even ill-tempered at times. But Roy had taught her that no animal had a truly bad nature. Every quirk of character had its roots in something—a past trauma, an ache or pain.
But they had never found the root of Flash’s problems. He’d been fast to flinch and quick to kick from the day they’d bought him. Roy had been convinced he could figure out what was bothering the horse and