Page 91 of Catching the Mistletoe

Mack took a step forward, but the man slapped a hand to his chest. “No way. Stay put. That horse is hurting, and any movement could spook him.”

With his back to me, I couldn’t see Mack’s face, but the tension was rolling off him in waves. The guy eyeballed him for a moment, then dropped his gaze, cleared his throat and stepped aside without a word.

Mack didn’t look at him again as he threw a curt, “Arabella,” over his shoulder at me, and headed for the crash site. I scurried after him, catching up just as he was pushing through the knot of people gathered near the truck.

The scene was chaotic and fucking gut-wrenching. One horse lay in the ditch beside the toppled truck, her eyes wide with terror and pain. Her dark hair was matted with mud and flecks of blood, and her sides heaved with labored breaths. I felt a nauseating mix of pity and helplessness.

The other horse was a different kind of disaster. He was pacing frantically, circling in a tight loop near the downed truck, his hooves slipping in the snow-covered grass. He let out a high, sharp whinny, a sound filled with so much fear it cut through the murmur of human voices. His eyes rolled back, showing white, as his nostrils flared with each panicked exhale. Now and then, he jerked his head, as if contemplating a reckless dash for freedom.

Mack took in the situation in one sweeping glance, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the scene. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, but then he moved. There was no hesitation in his stride as he made his way toward the pacing horse.

“Stay back,” he called over his shoulder, not even turning to see if I complied. I stood rooted to the spot, my heart pounding in my chest.

Mack began to talk softly, his voice barely carrying over the wind. It wasn’t clear what he was saying, but his tone was soothing, measured. He held his hands up, palms outward, as he took slow, deliberate steps toward the frantic horse. It was like watching a dance—every move calculated but fluid.

The horse’s ears flicked, twitching toward Mack as he caught the timbre of his voice. For a brief moment, the pacing slowed. It was an opening, a sliver of connection, and Mack seized it. He reached out and touched the horse’s nose, his fingers barely making contact before he pulled away. Slow but steady, back and forth, until the horse no longer recoiled but leaned into his touch.

I watched, transfixed, as Mack took hold of the reins and held them loosely, whispering to the horse all the while. “Arabella?”

“Yes?”

“See if there’s a feedbag in the float, would you?”

“Sure.”

I climbed into the bed of the float, now jumbled with hay, tack, and various pieces of riding gear. I sifted through the disarray until I found the coarse fabric of a feedbag. A quick check to make sure it still had some feed in it, and I was back out, hopping down to return to Mack.

“Got it,” I called out as I returned to Mack, holding the feedbag up for him to see.

“Good,” he said, briefly locking eyes with me before turning his attention back to the anxious horse. “Come stand by me.” I did, listening to Mack’s soft crooning as he gently rubbed the horse’s neck. “Now you’re going to take over.”

“Me?” Yep, my voice squeaked.

“Yes, Little Dove. You.”

Oh god. He hadn’t called me that since the cabin in the woods. Swallowing heavily, I said, “Okay. Tell me what to do.”

“All you gotta do is keep him calm and quiet. Grab some food and just hold it out; let him help himself.”

With a nod, I opened the bag and extended my arm, offering a handful of feed. The horse hesitated, nostrils flaring, but then cautiously moved forward to sniff the feed. He must have decided it was safe because he began munching straight from my hand.

Mack’s shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction, as if this small win with the first horse lifted some of the weight off him. “Alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s see what we can do for the other one.”

Mack shot me a reassuring glance, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly, as if to say, ‘You’ve got this.’ And then he moved away, his boots crunching over the snow as he slowly approached the injured horse lying in the ditch.

He knelt down, his movements graceful and deliberate. “Hey, girl,” he murmured, extending his hand cautiously toward her nose. The horse’s eyes, glazed with pain, seemed to focus on him for a moment. A soft, almost mournful whinny escaped her lips as she lifted her head slightly, meeting Mack’s hand.

My breath hitched as I watched him lay his palm flat against her belly, his fingers pressing gently, methodically. “It’s alright, girl,” he whispered, “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Minutes ticked by, each second feeling like an eternity. Then finally, Mack looked up, his eyes meeting mine across the distance. His nod was subtle, but the message was clear. She would be okay. The relief that washed over me made me weak at the knees.

“Anyone got a first aid kit in their car?” Mack called out, not taking his eyes off the horse.

Three people immediately broke away from the crowd, rushing to their vehicles. Mack continued to speak softly to the injured horse, stroking her mane to keep her calm while waiting for the kit. When one of the onlookers returned, first aid kit in hand, Mack took it without missing a beat. “Thanks.”

He popped it open, pulling out antiseptic and gauze. Carefully, he cleaned the visible scratches and wounds on the horse, bandaging them with the expertise that came from years of dealing with animals. It was like watching an artist at work, each movement deliberate, each touch gentle yet firm. Mack applied the last of the gauze, securing it with medical tape before he closed the kit with a soft snap. Satisfied, he sat back on his heels and then eased himself onto the wet ground beside the injured horse. For a moment, there was stillness, as if the world held its breath.

The mare shifted her weight. Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her head and, as if recognizing a kindred spirit, laid it gently in Mack’s lap. Mack’s hands instinctively went to her mane, fingers threading through the coarse hair as he continued to whisper soothing words.

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