Page 46 of Leather & Lies

Smoke fills my lungs as I throw them open. The Friesian’s screams cut through the chaos—pure terror from a horse who’s already known too much fear. Other horses kick at their stalls, adding to the chaos.

“Easy, boy.” I force calm into my voice when I approach him, even as flames crackle overhead. “We’re getting out of here.”

The massive black stallion rears as I open his stall, hooves flailing near my face. I can do this. I can keep him calm, get him out of here. I have to. My hands stay steady on the lead rope as I guide him toward the door, using my body to block his view of the flames.

Jackson appears beside me, his presence solid and sure. Together, we guide the panicked stallion into the rain. But as we turn back toward the barn, the Friesian spooks at a crash of thunder. His shoulder slams me into a post as he bolts into the fenced paddock.

“Shiloh!” Jackson’s hands steady me, but I’m already pushing away.

“I’m fine. The others?—”

We work seamlessly as the ranch hands arrive with firefighting equipment. Horse after horse emerges into the storm, some fighting, some following. My voice stays steady, even as smoke burns my throat. These animals know me. Trust me. Even in their panic, they respond to my calm commands.

A support beam crashes down behind us as we lead the last mare out. The fire has eaten through part of the roof, but the crew is containing it. The rain helps, drowning embers before they can spread.

“Status!” Jackson’s voice carries over the chaos.

“Damage is mostly contained to the northeast corner.” Miguel appears through the smoke, his face streaked with soot. “Structure’s sound enough, but we’ll need?—”

A scream of pure equine agony cuts him off. The Friesian. I spin toward the sound, already running. The stallion has tangled himself in damaged fencing I didn’t notice in my hurry to get him out of the stables, his panic making him fight harder with every movement. Blood streams from his shoulder where he’s cut it.

“Easy, boy.” I approach slowly. “Let me help you.”

His eyes roll white, nostrils flaring as he scents his own blood. Something shifts in his posture, a subtle tell I’ve seen too many times with traumatized horses. Before I can react, he rears, two thousand pounds of panic and pain launching toward me. His hooves slash the air inches from my head.

“Shiloh!” Jackson’s roar cuts through the storm as he lunges for me, but I’m already moving.

The Friesian’s teeth snap inches from my shoulder as I roll through the mud. Every lesson I’ve ever learned about dangerous horses kicks in as I regain my feet, maintaining eye contact, keeping my voice steady despite my thundering heart.

“That’s enough.” I pitch my voice low, commanding. The stallion’s ears flick toward me, recognition warring with terror. “You know me, big guy. You know my voice.”

Jackson’s body radiates tension beside me, ready to intervene, but he holds position, allowing me to handle the terrified horse.

Slowly, the massive animal settles, his head dropping in submission as recognition and trust win over panic. Only then do I feel Jackson’s hand wrap around my arm, his grip almost painful.

“Don’t you ever—” He cuts himself off, tension radiating off him, visible in the flashes of lightning as the storm pours down over us, adding to the hands’ efforts to put out the fire.

“I’m okay.” I cover his hand with mine, letting him feel my steady pulse. “But he needs us now. Both of us.”

Together, we approach the injured stallion. This time when I reach for him, he stays still, letting me lead him to safety. Jackson’s hands never stray far from me as we work, that protective instinct I once resented now feeling like shelter in the storm.

Hours blur together as we work to settle the horses in the undamaged part of the barn. The Friesian’s wound needs monitoring. It’s deep enough to worry me, but not life-threatening if we prevent infection. Other horses sport minor cuts and scrapes, their eyes still rolling at every sound.

The Friesian’s soft nickering draws me back to his stall for the dozenth time. The bandage holds clean, but his eyes still roll at every crack of thunder. Miguel’s crew continues their fire watch, their quiet movements a comfort to the nervous horses.

“He’s stable.” Despite the note of command in Jackson’s voice, his hand on my lower back is gentle, betraying his concern. “You need rest.”

“I’m not leaving him.” My voice comes out raw from smoke, but firm.

Instead of arguing, Jackson gestures toward the hay loft ladder. His face reveals nothing, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands—the only sign of how the night’s events have affected him. When I hesitate, his mouth tightens fractionally.

“You can hear them better from up there.” Professional. Practical.Liar.But his fingers brush my hip as I climb past him, the touch possessive and reassuring at the same time.

The hay loft smells of summer grass and wood smoke, fresh bales stacked against the undamaged walls. Through gaps in theold boards, I can see the storm still raging, but up here it feels almost peaceful. Safe.

Jackson spreads a horse blanket over the hay without comment. When I start to peel off my wet clothes, a sharp intake of breath is the only sign that he’s affected. But his hands are steady as he wraps another blanket around my shoulders, his body radiating heat as he pulls me against his chest.

Below, the Friesian whickers softly. My body moves to check on him by instinct, but Jackson’s arms tighten fractionally. Not restraining. Anchoring.

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