Page 36 of Take Me Home

He nickers like he agrees.

A gentle hand lands on my shoulder, and I turn to see Otto smiling at me.

“I knew you’d charm him.” He hands me the lead.

Hank and Lincoln walk inside the small barn to clean while Otto and I walk Rocky to the mare barn, where there’s a wash stall.

“The apple was cheating,” Lincoln mutters under his breath to Hank before the barn door closes.

I roll my eyes. Lincoln is so determined to dislike me, and I hate that I’m bothered by that. It seems he likes everyone, shows everyone his charming side—except me. Maybe he’s just jealous that I’m a natural with the horses. Or perhaps it’s simply tiny dick syndrome—that’s probably not it, though. He walks with a swagger that negates that theory.

Five minutes later, we have Rocky settled in the wash stall. Thankfully, it’s arranged in such a way that Rocky won’t encounter the mares. He would have a heyday with that to be sure—pun intended.

A barn full of mares is stallion heaven.

The walls and floor of the wash stall are cement, with the floor sloping down slightly to a large drain. Otto aims the hose away from Rocky, then turns the water on to get it warmed up.

I grab a brush and brush Rocky gently, working out any dirt clumps before we put him under the water. Once he’s brushed, Otto takes the hose and covers the stallion in a spray of warm water. I smile at how spoiled their horses are. The stables back home are very nice, but Townsend Manor doesn’t have a fancy wash stall.

Squirting some soap into a bucket to dilute it, I grab a silicone glove with bristles and dip it into the soapy water and run it across Rocky’s body. The stallion relaxes and closes his eyes. Me and Otto work quickly around him, scrubbing his mane, tail, legs, and body. Between the two of us, we’re done quickly. We got used to working together while we washed the mares earlier. Otto turns the water off and grabs a large brown towel and covers Rocky’s back with it. I enjoy watching him. He’s so gentle with all the horses. He treats them like they’re humans, just like Hank does. Like father, like son. I like to think I inherited the gene of being kind to animals from these two.

Otto meets my gaze and smirks just before grabbing another towel and throwing it at my head. “Get to work, Hattie,” he teases.

I take the towel, laughing, and help him dry Rocky.

Once Rocky’s spa day is complete, Otto leads him back to his barn and sends me inside for dinner, saying he’ll be there as soon as he puts Rocky ‘to bed’ for the night. As I walk back to the big house, my feet throbbing from a day of hard work, I smile to myself. Today was fun. Would I want to do it every day? No. But I enjoyed getting to know Hank and Otto through seeing what they do.

I walk inside Hank’s cabin and sit on the bench near the door, nearly moaning when I remove the coveralls and boots. I flex my toes and rub at my heels.

“Tired?” Lincoln’s voice comes from a few feet away and I jump in surprise.

I look over to find him watching me with an amused smirk.

Sighing, I level him with a look of annoyance. “Yes, I’m tired. Are you happy now?”

Something crosses his darkly handsome features, and his big hands slide into his jean’s pockets. “You worked hard today.” He rolls his lips like the next sentence pains him. “You did well.”

I stand and take a few steps toward him, bringing my chin up to look him in the eye. “Is it that hard to be nice to me?”

His eyes meet mine, and we stare at each other for a long moment. He opens his mouth to answer, but Hank strides through the front door. Lincoln takes a full step back, distancing himself.

“Oh, Linc. I meant to ask you earlier, but could you chop some wood for Hattie’s cabin?” Hank looks at me. “You’re probably running low, yeah?”

“I’m good, actually. I have a tall stack.” I smile at Hank.

Hank crosses his arms. “Is that right?” He turns to Lincoln and raises one eyebrow.

“Well, time for me to head home,” Lincoln says, clearing his throat. “If I get home too late, Wayne eats all the food.”

He has his boots on and he’s out the door faster than I can blink. Hank stares at the front door and hums thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

He shakes his head, but I can tell there’s something he’s not saying.

“Who’s Wayne?”

Hank waves me toward the kitchen as he scoops veggie chili from a crock-pot into two large bowls and hands me one. “That would be Lincoln’s ornery brother. He must be about twenty now.”