My jaw tightens in anger as I walk down the mud-dried hallway in search of Jackson. I knew the Wellingtons were taking advantage of my name and finances when we werenegotiating the deal, but this is beyond a joke. I remember this place from when I was a kid, and all childhood-tinged nostalgia aside, it’s a shell of what it used to be. Forget improvements—it’s clear not a penny has been spent to simply maintain it all these years.
I spot Riven in a stall, but there’s no sign of Jackson. I edge closer to the horse, keeping my face neutral and my movements steady. Riven eyeballs me. “Hey, fella,” I say gently, wishing I had a stick of carrot or some peppermints to offer him as a bribe.
A mop of black hair suddenly springs up from behind Riven’s croup. Intense, dark-green eyes stay focused on me as Jackson trails his hands over the creature, moving smoothly until he’s at the stall door. He slips out silently, locking it behind him.
“What do you want?” he asks as he brushes past me, then walks away briskly.
I jog to catch up to him. “Is that any way to speak to your new boss?”
He doesn’t slow down or turn around. “Not in the mood, Benson.”
There’s a bite in his tone that wasn’t there even while we were barbing the other day.
“Hey.” I reach for his elbow.
He twirls around lightning fast, snatching his arm away from me. “Don’t touch me.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’m sorry.” I lift my hands away from him. “Can we just talk? Please.”
He glares at me for a few long seconds.
“Fine.” He spits the word out with a mixture of reluctance and annoyance before leading me outside, the gravel crunching beneath our feet.
He darts forward, remaining a few paces ahead of me, but I don’t need to see his face to know this news has upset him. I follow him to a wooden bench nestled beneath the sprawlingbranches of a massive valley oak tree. The exact same tree and the exact same wooden bench Grandpa Rick and I would sit at while waiting for our horses to get prepped.
Jackson slumps onto literally the very edge of one side of the bench, folds his arms, and looks away. I suppress my smile and ease myself onto the very edge of the bench on the opposite side, leaving a comical amount of space between us. Well,Ihappen to find it funny. The scowl on Jackson’s face suggests I might be alone in that.
I open with the obvious. “You’re angry.”
“No shit.”
“Because I bought the place or because the Wellingtons sold it?”
He lets out a dismissive laugh. “Oh, I’m glad the Wellingtons are gone. Believe me. I won’t miss having to email them for permission to call out the vet or upping the feed order.”
He can’t be serious. “You joking?”
My eyes drop to his chest, rising and falling with every deep but forced breath, like he’s trying to hold back a surge of anger.
He swivels to face me. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
He most certainly does not.
But he has inadvertently given me a valuable insight into where he’s coming from. It’s clear he cares about this place and these animals. I’m guessing he lives in one of the cabins on-site if he was able to rush out and help with Riven the other night.
This place means something to him, something more than just a job or a paycheck. And from what I’ve seen of his fiery temper so far, I’d bet good money he’s probably clashed over how it’s being run with previous owners. Jackson doesn’t strike me as the type who’d stay silent as he watches a place he cares about slide into disrepair the way this sanctuary has.
“I used to come here as a kid,” I say. “With my grandfather.”
“You did?”
“Yep. We’d sit right here on this very bench. A bit closer to the middle…” No reaction from him. Okay. Still not in the mood for jokes. Got it. “I’d be buzzing with excitement as the horses got saddled for our ride.”
“The public could take the horses out?”
“No. But Grandpa Rick knew the owners, so they let him.”
“How old were you?”
