Page 28 of The Lies We Told Ourselves

“I’m fine,” I stressed, apparently deciding that the best way out of this was to dig this hole even deeper. “It doesn’t even hurt when I breathe anymore.”

Booker snorted out a laugh at that. “Really? That’s the level we’re measuring fine up against now?”

He had a point.

“I’m not broken, Booker. I might be down and a bit bruised around the edges, but I’m still the same person I always was. I don’t need you to treat me like a delicate butterfly that’s going to be crushed in your hands.”

He blinked slowly, his tongue coming out to run along his bottom lip, and I realized what I’d said. The implication beneath my words.

Because I wanted to know what it felt like to have his hands on me.

“Stay at her head. Keep talking to her,” he said, running his hand down the mare’s leg again to pick up her foot.

But when he moved the saw to her hoof, I panicked. “What are you doing?”

He peered up at me with a wry smile on his face. “I’m not cutting her leg off. I’m trimming her hooves.”

“With a saw?”

“It’s too thick to get the nippers through, and it would take too long. I cut here and take the bulk of the hoof where it’s curled back on itself, and then I can shape it with the file and the nippers.”

I nodded like I had any idea what he was talking about, not entirely sure that I had the guts to watch what he was about to do. What if the saw slipped, and he cut her leg?

“We’re going to be brave, okay?” I said, turning back to the mare and running a hand over her neck. “I’m pretty sure Booker knows what he’s doing.”

I heard his snort of laughter and then the sound of the saw cutting.

“Maybe don’t look,” I whispered to her. “If you need me to, I’ll look for you.”

The mare blinked, and I swear I saw some judgment in her eyes. “I’m only looking out for you,” I objected.

I scratched behind one of her ears, and the mare leaned into me. She was such a sweet thing. I didn’t see how anyone could have treated her the way they had. How they could have hurt her and then thrown her away like she was nothing.

We had more in common than I really wanted to admit. Except I hadn’t been fortunate enough to be thrown away.

It felt like hours passed as I gently ran my hands over the mare and whispered words of encouragement to her. All that time the steady sound of the saw working through the hoof that hurt her so much scratched across the background, proving that Booker was the type of guy who would do what was needed to fix the things that hurt you. Not that I’d needed any more proof of that. I was proof enough.

“Have you spoken to your brother since he came to the ranch?” I asked, probably to distract myself.

“Yes.”

I could hear the strain in his voice and peeked around the mare’s head to see how much further he had left to go. As I did, he finally made it through, and the gnarled end of the overgrown hoof dropped to the ground.

“Wow.”

Booker looked up with a grin, and it hit me full force. Damn, this grumpy man didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was beautiful.

“Will you pass me that rasp?” he asked, nodding toward the back of the van.

“Erm.” I stepped over to the open doors and looked at the array of torture equipment, completely lost what any of it was for, let alone what it was called.

“The file. On the left,” Booker added.

“This giant nail file thing?” I asked, holding up what I was pretty sure he was asking for.

“Sure.” He laughed. “Pass me the nail file.”

I passed the tool to him as he shook his head and then, with both hands on the rasp and the hoof held between his thighs, he started to file it down.

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