I aim a sudsy fork menacingly close to his chest. “Tell me right now, or I’m going to start calling you Grandpa.”
His eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me, old man. I’ll even get Verity and Sibella to do it, too,” I threaten, bringing out the big guns by mentioning my sisters.
He chuckles. “Fine. Maverick and I were talking on his last visit, and I happened to ask him how long he intends to be in Silverstone for. What he plans on doing.”
He leaves it there, and I can read him like a book. I know exactly what he’s doing: waiting for me to relent. “You win, Clancy. And what did Maverick Benson say?”
He gazes out the window, taking in the neat, green rows of trees shimmering under the sun, the soft blush of ripe apricots peeking through the foliage.
“It’s what he didn’t say that struck me,” Clancy says. “He couldn’t give me a straight answer. I got the impression he’s a bit lost.”
He says it so quietly I’m not sure I heard him right. “Lost?”
Clancy nods. “He’s not of the same ilk as the Duporths or all the other rich assholes you love to hate. There’s something more to him.”
This isn’t computing. From everything I’ve been able to gather about the guy, Maverick has the perfect life. Great family, tons of money, and he’s relatively attractive, if you’re into that whole tall, sharp-jawed, knows-how-to-wear-the-fuck-out-of-a-pair-of-designer-jeans thing.
Which I most definitely am not.
We couldn’t be more polar opposites if we tried.
I don’t shop for clothes often, but when I do, it’s at Tractor Supply Co. or a thrift store. I love my family, but we’re far from perfect. I don’t have any money. I’m a high school dropout. I’ve had health issues my whole life. And in less than a year, maybe even less than six months, I’m going to be legally disabled.
It’s easy to say I’m not interested in a guy like Maverick, but the real punch-in-the-gut truth of the matter is that a guy like Maverick Benson wouldn’t even look twice at a guy like me.
Which is fine.
More than fine, actually.
It’s the way it should be. The way it needs to be.
Silverstone may be a small town, but he’s already been here for months, and I’ve managed to avoid bumping into him untilyesterday. I’m sure it won’t be that hard to avoid running into him again.
I may not have money or power or movie-star looks, but I do possess one talent I wouldn’t give up for the world.
Some people are smart, or athletic, or creative…I can communicate with horses.
I’ve loved the majestic creatures for as long as I can remember. There’s a photo of three-year-old me on a bookshelf in Clancy’s living room, perched atop a beautiful black mare, my tiny hands gripping the reins, my face beaming. I don’t remember that photo being taken, but whenever I look at it, I can feel the joy radiating off me in that moment.
When I was eleven, I calmed a terrified horse that had been abused by its owner just by sitting with it out in the field for a few hours. Clancy told me I had a gift, but it just felt natural to me. It was the first bit of good news I’d gotten after Dad dying and Mom abandoning us. A few years later, I dropped out of school, took a few courses in equine behavior and animal therapy, and now I’m the head handler at Silverstone Sanctuary.
I’ve spent more time around horses than I have around humans. And that’s just the way I like it. They’re always talking, just not the way we do, obviously. Part of it is reading physical cues like ear movement. Ears flicking forward means the horse is paying attention, they’re relaxed and engaged; pinned-back ears can be a sign of irritation, fear, or overstimulation.
But it runs deeper than that. I once heard someone explain it like a radio frequency dial. Humans have their own frequency, horses theirs. I’m instinctively able to tune myself to the horseradio station and know what they’re thinking or feeling. It sounds woo-woo, but I can’t explain it any other way.
I don’t know where my ability came from, but I’m grateful for it every single day. It’s the most precious thing in my life.
“So, any plans to flip Maverick off again anytime soon?” Pip asks, grinning from ear to ear, as we step into the barn to check on Riven.
Ugh. I really ought to learn to keep my mouth shut. My best friend, Pip, is just as bad as Clancy. Possibly worse.
He volunteers at the sanctuary once a week. I told him about my two run-ins with Benson a few days ago as we went through the morning check-ins. He’s been teasing me about it all morning and now, it seems, is planning on ruining my afternoon, too. At least my headache is tolerable today, so that makes Pip’s incessant teasing somewhat bearable.
“I don’t intend on seeing him anytime soon. Or ever again,” I say as we enter the barn.
“How come? The man is…say it with me…hot.”
