Page 62 of Lost Then Found
“Only the best,” I tell him.
I stop in front of two stalls, reaching up to scratch the nose of the chestnut gelding hanging his head over the gate. “Hudson, meet Springsteen and Red.”
Hudson cocks his head. “Like Bruce Springsteen?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Damn right. That a problem?”
He shakes his head. “No, he’s cool. I just thought you were into country.”
“Springsteen is American music,” I say, nodding at him like it’s a fact he needs to understand. “Man’s a legend.”
Walker chuckles from a few feet away. “He’s been defending that name choice since high school.”
I smirk, patting the horse’s neck. “He was my dad’s horse, technically. But when he let me ride him for the first time, he said I could pick the name. I didn’t even hesitate.”
Hudson raises a brow. “You were that sure?”
“Damn right I was,” I say, resting a hand on the stall gate. “He deserved a name that meant something.”
Lark hums behind me. “Could’ve named him Billy. Billy Joel fits a chestnut.”
I shoot her a look over my shoulder. “We are not starting this again.”
“‘Vienna’ is a beautiful song,” she says, all innocent-like, even though she’s stirring the pot on purpose.
Hudson snorts. “Mom. No offense, but Billy Joel doesn’t make sense for a horse.”
I point at him. “Thank you.”
Lark feigns a dramatic gasp, clutching her chest like I’ve wounded her. “Wow. Betrayed by my own flesh and blood.”
Hudson grins. “Springsteen’s cooler.”
I glance at her, smug. “Kid’s got taste.”
She shakes her head, lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. She doesn’t win.
I guide Hudson a little farther down, stopping in front of another stall. I gesture toward the palomino mare inside. “Alright, this one’s Ellie. She belongs to your mom.”
Hudson’s head jerks toward Lark, eyes huge. “You had ahorsethis whole time?!”
Lark laughs, stepping up to the stall. “I had a horse a long time ago.”
Hudson crosses his arms, pretending to be betrayed. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
I shake my head, grinning. “Your mom wasn’t justanyrider, either. She was one of the best barrel racers in the state of Montana.”
Hudson’s jaw drops. “What’s barrel racing?”
Lark strokes Ellie’s nose, voice soft. “It’s a rodeo event—fast, tight turns around barrels. It’s all about control, speed, and trust between the horse and rider.”
Ellie flicks her ears, nudging into Lark’s hands, and I watch as Lark murmurs something quiet to her. There’s something about the way she does it, the way animals always seem to gravitate toward her like she speaks their language.
Watching her like this with Ellie stirs a deep, reckless pull inside me—dangerous, familiar, and impossible to ignore. A feeling I have no business entertaining.
“If you think baseball’s fast, you should’ve seen your mom run a barrel pattern.”
Hudson’s eyes widen. “That good?”
