Page 40 of Montana Justice

I hoped not, or else she might bite my arm right off.

I stroked Duchess’s velvet nose, and she leaned into the touch with a soft whicker, no teeth in sight. The trust in herdark eyes made my throat constrict. Even this innocent creature believed I was worth something. My hand trembled against her coat.

“Well, look at that,” Lark murmured, tilting her head as she studied us. “Duchess usually takes weeks to warm up to new people. You must have good energy.”

If only she knew the truth. My energy was toxic, spreading to everything I touched.

“I’ve set up that corner area for little man for when you need your hands free,” Lark continued, but she was watching me with those sharp green eyes, cataloging something I couldn’t name. She gestured to a small alcove near the tack room. “Portable crib, changing station, and there’s a baby monitor so you can hear him from anywhere in the barn. I tested the range myself—works all the way out to the round pen.”

The thoughtfulness of it made my throat tight. Especially since I wouldn’t be working here long. Ray would never allow it. “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“No trouble.” Lark’s laugh had an edge to it, like humor was armor she wore. “Besides, babies are good for the horses. Helps with desensitization training. Win-win, right?”

She bounced on the balls of her feet as she talked, a restless energy that reminded me of a horse ready to bolt. I wondered what she was running from.

“Come on,” she said, already moving. “Let me show you the feeding routine. Fair warning—I’m particular about it. Borderline obsessive, actually. Each horse has their own specific grain mix, supplements, and feeding schedule. I’ve got it all on laminated cards, color-coded and everything.”

Yesterday, Lark had introduced me to the basics of Pawsitive—the barns, the training rings, the fields. Mostly a chance for the two of us to get to know each other.

But today was more for specifics. The next hour passed in careful instruction. Lark showed me each horse’s feeding card, explaining their dietary needs with an intensity that bordered on fierce. Her hands moved constantly as she talked—adjusting halters, straightening buckets, picking invisible bits of hay from her jeans.

“This is Maverick,” she said at one stall, where a massive black gelding pinned his ears at our approach. “Former police horse, came to us with some trauma. Only gets two pounds of grain, no treats—he’s already too food-aggressive.”

The physical work felt good as I learned the routine. My muscles, soft from months of running and hiding, protested as I hefted hay bales and grain buckets. Sweat gathered between my shoulder blades despite the cool morning air. Caleb dozed through most of it, lulled by my movement and heartbeat.

When he started to fuss, making those small, hungry sounds I knew so well, I glanced at the corner Lark had prepared.

“Go ahead,” she said, somehow reading my hesitation. “I’ll finish up the grain. Take your time.”

I settled Caleb in the portable crib after feeding him what little I could provide, supplementing with formula until his belly was full. The monitor crackled to life as I clipped the receiver to my belt—another kindness that felt like judgment for what I was about to do.

The repetitive motion of mucking stalls gave my body purpose while my mind churned. The pitchfork was heavier than I’d expected, the wooden handle worn smooth by countless hands before mine. Each forkful of soiled bedding sent up dust that made my nose itch. My shoulders burned after just one stall, reminding me how weak I’d become.

“You’re trying too hard,” Lark said, appearing at the stall door with two bottles of water. She demonstrated with her ownpitchfork, a fluid motion that used her whole body. “Let the tool do the work. It’s like dancing—find the rhythm.”

Dancing. I almost laughed at the comparison. When was the last time I’d danced?

Never. I’d never danced. I couldn’t even remember twirling around as a kid.

I accepted the water gratefully, the cold bottle shocking against my overheated palm. “Hard work doesn’t bother me.”

“I can see that.” She took a long drink from her own bottle, then surprised me by plopping down right there in the barn aisle, legs stretched out in front of her. After a moment’s hesitation, I joined her. “You know what I love about horses? They don’t lie. Ever. They can’t. Everything they feel is right there on the surface.”

She picked at the label on her water bottle, shredding it into tiny pieces. “Humans, though? We’re all liars. Every one of us. The only difference is what we’re lying about and who we’re protecting with those lies.”

My chest tightened. It was as if she could see what was happening in my mind. “That’s a cynical view.”

“Is it?” She turned those penetrating green eyes on me. “When’s the last time you went a full day without lying about something? Even little stuff—‘I’m fine’ when you’re not, ‘It’s okay’ when it isn’t.”

I couldn’t answer that. Didn’t want to.

“Lachlan’s not a liar,” I said instead.

“No,” she agreed, a soft smile replacing her intensity. “He’s not. Which is probably why he needs people like us around—to balance out all that noble honesty.” She stood in one fluid motion, dusting off her jeans. “I’ll be in the office doing paperwork. First aid kit’s in the tack room if you need it for those blisters forming on your hands.”

I looked down, surprised to see she was right. Red patches had popped up at the base of my fingers where I’d been gripping the pitchfork too tightly.

After she left, I finished mucking three more stalls. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, and those blisters had progressed from threats to promises of pain. But the exhaustion felt clean somehow. Earned.

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