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He doesn’t get too excited, but the last time I was here, he held his palm under Shiloh’s velvety nose. When his mother saw him looking into the horse’s huge eyes, she started to cry.
I cleared my throat and did my best not to draw attention to them. I’m not licensed in equine therapy, but I help Gloria with her students if they arrive before she does.
“Youaredoing it, Benji.” Gloria’s voice is low and encouraging. “That’s very good.”
The horse lifts his head, exhaling a playful snort, and I move my hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“He’s nodding because he likes it,” she laughs.
Gloria is at least fifteen years older than me, and she opened this ranch on the outskirts of town while I was still in college.
Her obscenely rich parents couldn’t figure out why their only daughter was more interested in broken-down thoroughbreds than debutante parties and dating the most eligible bachelors in their circle.
They’d taken her to Churchill Downs, hoping she’d meet the son of one of their friends there, but instead she’d spent the weekend hanging out with a female veterinarian, who opened her eyes to several things, including the number of former racehorses headed to the slaughterhouse due to overuse or injury.
As soon as she got home, in her characteristic, take-charge fashion, she convinced her parents to buy the old polo club, which she turned into a shelter for the animals.
Then when she learned about equine therapy, she took it a step further by getting licensed and inviting local parents to bring their kids here to ride and care for the older, gentler horsesand only charging what they could afford to pay. Even if that meant they participated for free.
People like Gloria give me hope for mankind.
“Good Morning, Mr. Bradford.” Sandra steps up beside Gloria, letting out a little whistle. “Out here at the crack of dawn, looking like a snack in those jeans.”
Sandra never misses a chance to flirt with me, like all the old ladies in our small town on the coast. The only difference is I know Sandra’s genuinely teasing.
Still, I don’t engage. “Benji’s mom said he woke up asking to feed the pretty horses.”
“Pretty horses, eh?” Gloria’s brows rise. “I’d call that progress.”
“You sure she was talking about the horses?”
“Leave him alone, Sandra. You know Zane doesn’t like flirting, and I need him here.”
My smile is tight, because she’s not lying. I don’t have much patience for frivolity, but I do have a sense of humor, as dry as it might be.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I step back to open the door of Shiloh’s stall.
“That’s a relief.” Sandra winks. “This town needs more tall, dark, and broody former football players with chiseled jawlines and a love of books and special-needs children.”
“I’ve got to get to Miss Gina’s.” A wince tightens my smile when I step wrong, and a spasm grabs my lower back.
Concern lines Gloria’s face. “That old injury acting up again?”
Shaking my head, I take a halting step. “Miss Gina had me moving potted trees around yesterday. They were a lot heavier than they looked.”
“Oh, and don’t forget, he takes care of rich, old blind ladies,” Sandra calls after me.
“Miss Gina’s some tough competition.” Gloria elbows her partner before taking my place in the stall beside Benji andShiloh. “But I’m willing to share as long as Zane keeps my mornings covered.”
Gloria is not a morning person, something we established up front.
I take the morning shift, welcome any therapy kids who show up early, keep things running until she appears, then I head back to Montrose, the small town north of Newhope where I’m a glorified handyman for Miss Gina Rosario, who lives alone in her historic mansion on the bluffs.
Miss Gina is the last of a very wealthy family, one of the founding families of our town, and thanks to Dylan’s obsession with her massive, Italian-style estate, we’ve become friends. Dylan is also the reason I started working for her after her octogenarian groundskeeper retired.
“See you tomorrow.” I give them a brief wave.
The doors are off my old Jeep Wrangler, and the wind swirls around me as I head back up the scenic drive to town. Live oak trees stretch heavy limbs over the two-lane road, creating a shady tunnel, and my mind travels back in time.
