“Why don’t we set up an online fundraiser for the barn and link it to your profile?” I ask. “You have enough followers now that I’m sure some of them will donate.”
And I definitely will. I’ll donate a few hundred dollars at a time so that Beau and Candice don’t suspect it’s me.
“Okay, sure,” she says. “We have a link to donate on the website, but it’s always crashing, and no one ever sees it anyways.”
“How did your grandparents make it work?” I ask her, because I’m a bit curious as to how Star Mountain has survived this long.
“They tapped into the community, and held a big annual fundraiser. Grammy did that part of the business, while Gramps took care of the horses.”
“And now both of those jobs are up to you,” I confirm.
“Yeah, basically. Beau helps, of course, but he has his vet work, and I’m grateful for the money that brings in.”
“It will get better,” I say. “If you grow the barn’s social media presence effectively, you’ll get plenty of donations. And hey, maybe an endorsement or two.” I crack a smile and Candice rolls her eyes.
But she says, “Fine. You can take more photos of me with the horses. But I get final approval of everything before it gets posted.”
“Yes, your highness,” I tell her with a wink.
“How should I pose?” she asks. “I’m not a model or anything.”
I refrain from telling her that she could easily be if she wanted to. She’s all long legs, shapely hips, and tousled hair.
“Just do what you’d normally do with the horse. Hang out with them,” I say.
“Shouldn’t I change into something a bit more feminine? I don’t think these old jeans are social media worthy.” She looks a bit nervous. It strikes me that the Viper, for all her sharp-tongued tenacity, has no idea how beautiful she is.
“Honey,” I say, the term of endearment slipping out of my mouth more easily than it should. “You look…you look just fine.” Fine is an understatement, but Candice will just accuse me of being a lecherous playboy if I tell her what I’m really thinking, which is that even in a pair of old jeans and beat-up boots she’s completely mouthwatering.
“Thanks,” she says, though she’s still frowning a bit.
She walks over to where Maggie is grazing, and sits down in the grass near her. After a few minutes, Maggie lays down right next to Candice and places her enormous head on Candice’s lap. Candice gives her a scratch between her ears, and then strokes her face. The mare closes her eyes in contentment, and I can tell it’s something they’ve done together a hundred times.
I take a few photos of them just like that, with Candice’s face in profile, her hair blowing behind her. The golden sunlight streaming from between the mountains hits her cheekbones, illuminating the planes of her face. Her gaze is fixed on the fields beyond and she looks at one with the horses and the landscape—like some sort of nymph or goddess of the wild. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat and take a few more of her, including a couple close up shots and a short video of her stroking Maggie’s face.
The mare was made for this type of thing. She’s a truly stunning horse, with large reddish brown splotches covering her coat and a mane that Candice lets grow long and free. She’s also in possession of the calmest disposition and she’s happy to just lay there and hang out with her human. I take a seat next to them and snap a photo of Candice’s boots in the grass.
“Why did you name her Maggie?” I ask Candice.
Candice looks startled by the question, like she’d forgotten I was there.
“Oh,” she says. “Her name is actually Queen Margaret. I had a thing for books about princesses and queens when I was a kid,and there was one about a queen named Margaret. Her story was my favorite. My mom gave it to me.” Her voice cracks around the word “mom” and my heart does, too. “But Queen Margaret is a mouthful so we shortened it,” she finishes.
“Have you ever shown her? She seems like she’d be good at it.”
“At what?” Candice asks.
“Reining,” I say. “She’s calm.”
“Of course you’d say that,” she says. “But no, I’ve never shown her. I’m a decent rider, but I’ve never been interested in competing. And Maggie would probably be good at it, but she’s needed here. She helps me train.”
“Why are you set against competition?” I ask.
“I’m not set against it,” she says sharply. “I’m suspicious of it. I’m suspicious of anything that forces a horse to do something they may not want to do.”
“I’ve never made Ballantine do any?—”
“Horses don’t care about winning, Nathan. People do,” she says, cutting me off. “And I find that they’ll push their horses endlessly just to get a ribbon or a buckle or whatever.”
