I tune out his teasing as I approach Riven’s stall, slowing down when he looks up at me. I pull a bag of peppermints out of my back pocket, grab a few, and stick my palm out. “Hey, buddy. How ya feelin’ today?”
He scraped his leg three nights ago, nicking it when he jumped the fence to escape. There’s a raw patch just over the fetlock on his hind leg. Thankfully, it wasn’t too serious, so I wrapped it up and am keeping a close eye on it.
His nostrils flare, sniffing the sweet scent in the air. He gently takes the peppermint from my hand with a soft nicker. “Good boy. I’m going to come in and take a look at your leg. Pip is going to brush you, okay?”
He flicks his ears forward, then takes half a step back as I unlatch the lock to his stall. I crouch down to check Riven’s legwhile Pip starts brushing him in long, slow strokes along his flank.
“How’s it looking?” he asks, his voice low so as not to agitate Riven.
I gently lift Riven’s leg and run my hand down the bandage to check for any signs of swelling or discomfort. “Okay, so far.” I carefully peel back the edge of the bandage to inspect the wound, feeling for warmth or any unusual changes in the area. “Seems to be okay. But if anything changes, I’ll call the vet.”
Pip lets out a grunt. “You’ll have to get that approved.”
“Don’t I know it,” I grumble.
The Wellingtons bought the center two years ago and have spent diddly squat on it. The barn has no running water. Fences need fixing. And every single time I want to call the vet, I have to write an email and get written approval for the cost. It’s bullshit. I may not have some fancy business degree, but this is no way to run an animal rescue.
Pip and I work in companionable silence, the barn quiet except for the soft rustle of hay and the occasional clink of tack. No one knows where Riven came from. He just showed up one afternoon about six months ago during a rare thunderstorm, soaked and shaking, his ribs showing through his dull, patchy coat.
I twist my torso and peek around Riven’s back. Pip is working the brush in long, slow strokes. I smile to myself, loving seeing my best friend so calm and peaceful. The parallels between how Riven showed up at the sanctuary and how Pip came into our lives are uncanny.
One stormy night three years ago, he showed up on Clancy’s front porch, soaked and shaking, having escaped the clutches of an Eastern European mafia boss he’d been romantically involved with. Clancy took him in, and he’s been family ever since.
Just like it’s taken time to get Riven to where he is today, the same is true of Pip. He may be short and appear fragile, but anyone who underestimates him does so at their own peril. The guy is feisty, loyal, strong, and one hundred percent never going to have his life controlled by anyone ever again. He’s also got the deepest baritone voice I’ve ever heard.
“Have you figured out how Riven got out?” he asks, giving Riven’s coat one last swipe, then stepping back to admire the shine.
I get to my feet. “I suspect it was Hans. He was the evening stable hand that night.”
“That guy is a douche.”
“Most of the staff here are,” I agree.
“Yo!”
Speaking of the douche devil himself, Hans barges into the stall like the moron he is, startling us all, including Riven, who pins his ears flat against his head, his tail swinging wildly.
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss at the idiot.
I don’t even know why he works here. If you couldn’t care less about animals, there are plenty of other minimum-wage jobs to be shitty at.
“New owner.” He hikes his thumb over his shoulder, like we’re expected to know what that means.
“What are you saying?” I whisper to Hans, doing my best to keep my tone level as I gently stroke my hand down Riven’s neck.
“The new owner is here,” Hans says, a little quieter this time. “He’s out front and says he wants to meet everyone. So hurry the fuck up and get your asses out there.”
He leaves, and Pip comes over to me. “Did you know anything about a new owner?” he asks softly.
“No.”
It’s hardly surprising. The Wellingtons have only ever visited once, and it happened to be on my day off, so I’ve never even met them. Rumor around town has it they only bought this place to diversify their land portfolio. Whatever the fuck that means.
Communication with them is spotty at best, and when it occurs, it’s always done via email. I haven’t logged on in a few days, so maybe they emailed the news and I missed it. Then again, Pip is chronically online, and he seems just as baffled as I am.
I double-check the latch is secured in place, and Pip and I head outside. My mind is racing. The sanctuary has changed hands a lot in the seven years I’ve worked here. It’s usually bought by someone who has no idea what it takes to run a place like this. They get in over their head, and whatever good intentions they may have initially had nosedive when they start bleeding money because news flash: horse rescue centers don’t exactly bring in the big bucks. So then they pass the baton to the next rich fool, and the cycle repeats all over again.
This land used to belong to my family. It’s ours. And it would still be ours if Clancy hadn’t been swindled in some shady-ass deal I still don’t know all the ins and outs of.
