Page 25 of Where They Belong

Mason stared at him for a long moment—Colt’s blue eyes were stormy, his mouth pinched, and brows furrowed—and shook his head as he ran the brush over Cuervo’s coat. “Forget it. Water under the bridge.”

“What are you talking about?” Colt demanded, his hands on his hips.

Mason didn’t bother to reply. His emotions were too close to the surface, and rehashing old hurts was a conversation best had with cooler heads. That and he needed a little time to shove his feelings for Colt down so deep they’d never see daylight again.

“Come on, old man,” Mason said affectionately to Cuervo when he was done. Cuervo followed him from the stall and out to his pasture, without a halter or lead, while Colt trailed along behind.

“Are you going to answer me?” Colt asked.

Mason kept his back to Colt as he closed the pasture gate and secured the chain on the post and then headed for the medical barn.

“If you’re going to stick to me like a burr, why don’t you make yourself useful?”

“Where are you going now?” The frustration in Colt’s voice was as clear as the day was long, and a part of Mason reveled in irritating Colt.

Colt kept pace at Mason’s side as Mason walked toward the barn. When he reached the large open door, Colt extended his arm across Mason’s chest to block him from entering.

“Wait for me to enter first.”

The authority in Colt’s voice sent an unwanted flurry of butterflies free in Mason’s stomach.

Mason leaned in the doorway while Colt did his thing. Dion and Selma were standing in a stall with one of the recent rescues. Angela stepped out of the first aid room, and a flush colored her cheeks. His sister Katie followed, met Mason’s eyes, and smiled like the cat that ate the canary.

Well, that explains things. Mason had been wondering why Katie was spending so much time with the rescue horses lately. He’d thought it was that she wanted to do more hands-on help rather than just the admin, sponsorships, and fundraising, but now it seemed the reason had more to do with her heart than the horses. He smiled in return. Angela was a great girl.

Colt investigated each stall, the feed and first aid room, and climbed the ladder to survey the hayloft. Mason tracked Colt’s every move—watched how Colt’s snug jeans hugged his long legs and thick thighs; watched his perfectly shaped glutes flex with each stride; watched the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunch beneath his shirt as he climbed into the loft. The man was like a piece of living art. Tangible, interactive art that Mason wanted to immerse himself in, to touch and trace the lines and curves, dips and grooves with his hands and his mouth . . .

Colt jumped off the last couple of rungs onto the barn floor with a solid thud, and Mason snapped back into the here and now, where his life was in danger and Colt was temporary. He didn’t bother to hide his frown when Colt came back to the door and gestured for Mason to enter. Ignoring how the man affected him was going to be a challenge.

Mason’s crew turned to him with questions in their eyes, but Mason shook his head.

“How is she today?” Mason asked as he approached the stall Selma and Dion were in.

The chestnut mare, Spice, was one of the three that had come in the same day as Colt and his brothers. All three had been neglected and starved, left in a small dirty paddock without access to food or water, and forced to stand in their own filth. Fortunately, the owner had been reported before the horses were beyond all chance of recovery, but it was still touch and go when horses had been starved so badly.

“She’s doing so much better already,” Dion answered while Selma went back to wrapping a long wound on Spice’s hind leg. Selma didn’t talk much, unless it was to the horses, and left the updates to Dion. “Her wound is starting to heal nicely, and she’s eager to eat.”

“Just a handful of grain three times a day for a few more days,” Mason said. Refeeding a starved horse was a slow and careful process, and if Spice’s system continued to tolerate this small amount, then they could increase her grain a little more next week.

Mason stepped closer and ran his hand over the mare’s cheek. “Hey, Spice Girl.”

Her eyes were looking so much brighter than just a few days before. As though she knew she was safe now, that they were there to help her, and she would never want for anything again.

He turned to find Colt watching with a crooked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth that caught Mason off guard.

“What?” Mason asked defensively.

“Spice Girl?” Colt teased. His smile widened.

Mason’s brain stalled for a second. The playful tone in Colt’s voice shot Mason back in time to his fourteen-year-old self, when Colt was his sun and his moon and all the stars in between.

“Shut up,” he said without heat.

He turned his attention back to the horses and not memories of the Colt he once knew. Mason crossed the laneway to check on Gin-Gin, a bay mare that had ice bags wrapped around her front legs because she’d come down with laminitis.

“Any better?” he asked Angela, who was doing ice bath intervals to bring the heat down and give Gin-Gin some comfort.

“The swelling has come down a little,” she said. “Her hooves are still pretty warm but not near as hot as yesterday.”

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