Page 33 of Shattered Mind

She holds my stare. “Call it a great sixth sense and a terrible inside voice.”

A dark chuckle leaves me before I sober my features. “I’d prefer it if the whole town didn’t know my business.”

Her eyes narrow as she straightens her shoulders defensively. “If you think I pranced around town announcing to everyone that I got the broody brother into bed, you’ve got the wrong girl. So, you can stop with the intimidation shit.” She waves a manicured nail at me. “I know what last night was. I used you just as much as you used me. Now, are we done? I’d like to get back to my friends.”

Her words stun me for a moment, and I just look at her, searching for something to tell me she’s lying, but I don’t find it. Instead, I see the way her expression changes from anger to closed off, and I nod once before stepping away, allowing her to shoulder past me and out the back door.

I stand there long after she leaves, the familiar disgust swimming in my gut as her words repeat in my head.

I used you just as much as you used me.

***

Since I was a boy, I’ve always found horses therapeutic. The way you can tell them anything without judgement or opinion. The horses I have rehabbed and trained over the years have been the only living being I’ve happily spent more than a few hours with.

Some of the more traumatised ones – the ones that need a gentler approach – remind me a lot of myself. As hard and unapproachable they may seem on the outside, on the inside they’re just…afraid.

The stallion in my training barn is one of the worst I’ve seen.

A lot of the time when a horse comes to me, it’s because they aren’t tame, lack training and the owner needs help. Nine times out of ten, ranchers, or farmers, will have their own horse trainer on site, but I’ve built a name for myself over the years. People usually come to me because I’m good at what I do. I have a way with the tougher horses that many lack.

It’s not often that I work with outside horses but it’s also not uncommon. There are rare occasions - like this one - when I get wind of abuse or neglect and take matters into my own hands with the help of law enforcement.

I collected this particular horse two weeks ago from a dog breeding farm a few towns over and have yet to earn his trust. The owner of the farm had no equine experience and left the horse tied to a fence for days with no food or water. He allowed his dogs to attack him and left all wounds untreated.

The sight that greeted me when I arrived at the farm had a foreign lump of emotion forming in the back of my throat. It took damn near everything inside of me not to pummel the prick right there. If the sheriff hadn’t been there with me, I probably would have.

The horse – that’s yet to be named – had to be sedated when he first arrived on the ranch in order for Doc to treat his wounds and rehydrate him intravenously. The only upside of the whole thing was he hadn’t contracted any infections in his wounds.

The majority of them had been dog bites and lash marks. I don’t know what the guy was using him for at the farm, but it was clear to see he’d done nothing to keep his feral dogs away from the horse.

I hold my hand open through the gap in the stall door, showing him the peppermint treats and wait. I remain asstill as possible as he walks towards me on shaky legs. His nostrils twitch as he sniffs the air.

After several minutes, he takes the treats from my hand before shuffling back several steps to chew them. I repeat the process, and each time he closes the distance between us alittle bit more.

Progress.

CHAPTER 16

OLIVIA

Iwatch silently as Grayson smiles softly at the skinny white horse in the stall, the look on his face more peaceful than I’ve ever seen it.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling something out before sliding his hand back through the gap, his palm facing upwards. I watch in awe as the horse takes a tentative step forward, stealing the snack.

Grayson mutters a quiet, “good boy,” before repeating his action twice more. I stay hidden in the shadows next to the front doors and take in this surprisingly gentle side of him. The way his eyes light up a little more each time the horse takes another trusting step towards him. How his shoulders seem more relaxed, and the lines on his face less prominent.

It’s clear to anyone with eyes that this is Grayson’s element.

After several long minutes, he finally turns and his eyes lock with mine. Just like the horse, he takes tentative steps towards me, and my eyes roam his body, focusing on thetaut muscles in his arms as he clenches and unclenches his fists in the pocket of his denim jeans.

My skin prickles with heat at the memory of the way his fingers dug into my hips as he pounded into me from behind, and I clear my throat, forcing my gaze back to his.

“You have a way with them,” I say, trying and failing to conceal the shake in my voice.

Grayson says nothing, continuing his approach before turning abruptly and disappearing into a room off to the left of the barn. I follow him, leaning a hip against the doorframe as he moves around the room. I allow myself a moment to take in the space that seems to be some kind of tack room. Bridles and saddles hang on the wall next to a small sink. Blankets and grooming supplies are tucked away into their respective places. There are buckets piled high in the corner and the smell of leather and hay is heavy in the air.

“What’s its name?” I ask.

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