Page 65 of All We Carry Home

“Have them doing rounds, Captain?” I cast him a teasing glance.

“Well, you might not take your safety seriously, but my men and I do.” He seemed to realize how far into the woods behind the barn we’d walked. “Where are we going?”

I chuckled. “To the pond.”

The cluster of trees split with a well-worn trail and dipped back into a lower, seasonal pond. Another few months and it would be all mud and bugs, but right now the water was four or five feet deep and teeming with plants and tadpoles.

“The perfect place for a soft landing,” I said.

He snapped his gaze from the clearing to me with a tense expression. “For you?”

“No, not for me.” I backed the mare to the edge of the pond. Her head faced away from the water, and she swished her tail, unperturbed and unsuspecting. There was a thick wooden pole and metal ring a few feet from the edge of the pond—purposefully installed by Gramps for this very type of behavior. It was a dangerous habit for the horses and handlers alike and one that Gramps had often treated.

Warren frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ll see.”

I tied Stormy to the post, lifted the saddle, and placed it on her back. The horse’s ears shot back, and her liquid black eyes showed white at the edges. She pulled back on the lead rope, and at the unyielding pressure from the sturdy post, her panic set in.

I pulled the cinch under her belly, tightened it, and then stepped toward her head.

She flung her head up, the lead rope straining. I pulled out my knife and cut the rope, and the soft sand of the bank gave way. The horse fell straight back, unable to recover her footing. She splashed into the water and thrashed for just a moment before finding her bearings, getting to her feet, and jumping toward us, unharmed.

I grabbed her sodden, muddy lead rope and pulled her to a stop.

The horse was covered in green algae, water, and mud. Her sides heaved from the shock of it, and her skin twitched as she tried to shake off the water and debris.

Warren’s jaw dropped open, and he shook his head in wonder. “Another Bill trick?”

I nodded.

“Think she’ll need another swim?” he asked.

Stormy lowered her head, resigned and no longer tense with the saddle firmly strapped to her back.

“I don’t think so. Hopefully now she understands that the pressure of a lead rope is less scary than pulling back.”

Warren patted the mare’s neck, not seeming to care that his hand came away covered in pond muck. “What other tricks do you have?”

“I’ve got a few in my back pocket.” I suppressed a smile. “If they’re needed.”

“I hope I get to see them.”

I wanted that too. It warmed me at my core to see him impressed by my work, but that was a dangerous desire. He was my client, and that was all he could ever be. No matter how much I found the man endearing, charming, and kind, I had to keep my expectations—and my heart—at bay.

Once we’d agreed to a longer-term arrangement for Phantom, Captain Warren Hayes would disappear from my life once more, except for the occasional show and trip to see Phantom. He had alluded to commitments back in Philly, and he was a man of his word.

“Cheryl called to remind me about that fundraiser again.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “She’s hoping you’ll come too.”

I grabbed a handful of mud from the seat of the saddle and flung it back into the pond with a splash. “I have no desire to rub elbows with the same group who accused us of an unprofessional relationship.”

“Those people are usually cowards. Once you face them, they’ll squirm.” He smiled, those handsome dimples buried in a day’s worth of stubble. “It’d be much more fun if you were there.”

“Let’s just get through the show next weekend,” I said. “I’ll think more about it after that.”

Stormy perked her head up sharply, looking to the west where the cabins lay. A distant, faint whiff of . . .

“Smoke,” Warren said, taking off in that direction at a run.