Page 29 of Chaos

Bearing the brunt of it is making me a little woozy—I never claimed to be immune to a handsome face, and the one a single shuffle away from me is that and a lot more—so I look away, clearing my throat as I refocus on the project at hand.

Ruin.

Halter.

Halter on Ruin.

Go.

With bated breath and a continuous chant ofpleasepleasepleaserunning through my head, I slip the precisely knotted rope onto the unpredictable horse, keeping an eye on his fluttering lips as I secure it behind his ears.

When he lets me, I resist the urge to leap into the air and click my goddamn heels together.

Instead, I keep going. I hip-check the Cheshire fucking Cat out of the way so I can unlock the stall door and pry it open.

The first tug on the lead rope attached to the halter, Ruin resists. He ducks his head, giving it a good shake and blowing indignantly. Carefully, I relinquish half of my grip so I can rublight, soothing circles on his wide forehead. “Just a little longer and then we’ll leave you alone.”

Another blow. A whinny. A clop as Ruin indulges me with a single, indignant step, waiting an entire minute before gracing me with another. And then another, and another, and another until finally, he clomps out of the stall and lets me line him up where Finn wants him.

Finn, who pats me on the shoulder and murmurs the same words I do to Ruin, a softgood jobthat makes my stomach feel a little funny, my skin a little warm.

As quickly as the odd feeling descends, I shake it off. “Am I trying a cross-tie or just holding him?”

“Hold him.” Starting from his head, Finn rubs a palm all the way down to Ruin’s flank, making sure the stallion knows he’s there before bending at the waist to drag his touch down a back leg. “I think tying him up will freak him out.”

I agree, but considering the simple act of being alive seems to freak him out too, I’m not sure it’s a viable argument. “Not that I can’t do it—”

Finn snorts.

“But,” I continue, narrowing my eyes at his hunched form. “What, exactly, am I supposed to do if he loses it?”

I’m plenty capable, but I’m not fucking Superman. Ruin isn’t the biggest horse I’ve dealt with, but he’s still pretty damn big. He’s got to be, what, four times my weight? Five? If he wants out of my hold, he’s getting out.

A fact that doesn’t seem to at all bother the man who bends a strong, equine leg at the knee, pins the limb between both of his, and positions the rear hoof of an exceptionally erratic horse a few inches from his face so he can inspect the first of four horseshoes. “He’s not gonna lose it,” Finn murmurs, as sure as he is relaxed. “Because you’re gonna keep him calm.”

Surely, he knows how ironic of an ask that is ofme, of all people. He can’t possibly trustmewith the safe-keeping of that irritatingly handsome face.

Except inexplicably, he must. Because if he didn’t, he sure as hell wouldn’t slide one of the tools from his belt and get to work. “Keep talking. He likes your voice.”

Carry on sweet-talking my new friend is what he means. Yet instead, I find myself addressing my not-so-friend instead. “You’re a farrier?”

A hum answers exactly what I asked, and provides not a single bit of information more.

“That what you did on your family’s ranch?”

“No.”

I wait for him to elaborate, sighing when he doesn’t—when I realize he’s never going to give me anything more than I ask. So I do, in a sarcastic, saccharine tone, “Whatdidyou do?”

He takes his time answering, really dragging out the seconds as he swaps tools. “A lot of the same as what we do here, except with cattle.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Why’d you leave?” he throws back at me, but after we reposition slightly so he can get to the other back hoof, he says, “I like horses more.”

“That’s it?”

“Not enough for you?”

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