Page 15 of The Front Runner
I blow a loose piece of hair away from my face. “I’m going to need your help walking him into the barn. He’s very weak. Let’s just get him into a stall on his own first. I’m going to need some of the mare’s manure, and I’ve got some Vicks VapoRub.”
His nose wrinkles. “For what?”
“The manure we need to rub on the foal. The Vicks is to block her sense of smell. Hopefully that will be enough. Is she a mellow mare? A mild tranquilizer is also an option.”
“She’s always been very calm.Why would you tranquilize her?”
I peer back at him as I pull open the trailer door. “She could react poorly. She could reject the foal. This isn’t guaranteed.”
Stefan presses his shoulders back stiffly, his lips pressing into a grim line. “I didn’t realize that was a risk.”
I step up into the trailer, muttering to myself, “Sometimes I wonder how you got into this business at all.”
I feel him step up behind me, but he says nothing.
“Hey, little buddy.” I run my hands over the foal, happy to see he’s still standing. “Out we go. Stefan, just support his body in case he stumbles.”
Between the two of us, we get the small colt out of the trailer and into a warm stall. Stefan stands in the doorway staring at him with a sad look on his face while I swipe some of the rub into the mare’s nostrils a few doors down. Then with one gloved hand, I pick up a few pieces of manure from her stall before heading over to rub it along the foals back. Right where she might sniff while he nurses.Hopefully.
To Stefan’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch. And when everything is as set as it’s going to get, I turn back to the tall man waiting behind me. The grim expression on his face and red-rimmed eyes are a perfect reflection of my own face.
“Ready?”
He gives me a steady nod. “Yup. Let’s do it.” There’s a hard set to his angular jaw now. Our time for joking has passed. He almost looks nervous.
“Okay. Let’s get him up.”
I’m not big on praying. But I send up a small prayer now.
I’ll take all the help I can get to make this work.
6
Stefan
My heart hammersagainst my ribs as we walk the tiny colt down the concrete alleyway, small, soft hooves clopping quietly through the barn. I feel like a shmuck. Here I am, joking around and flirting with Mira, feeling all proud of myself for squeezing three dates out of the woman while a horse’s life is on the line.
And this might not even work.
I’m usually comfortable with morally gray business decisions, but this time I just feel like a dick. Mira saves lives for a living, and I leveraged that passion for my own gain. Asking for the dates was a shot in the dark, just like it was the first time I did it and every time since. But her turning me down has me fixated. I want to know Mira Thorne in ways she can’t even imagine.
Truthfully, I should probably feel worse. But watching her work, so steady and focused, just makes me more attracted to her. I’ve studied my ass off since starting this venture to learn as much as possible about the business. My closest friend, Griffin—who I bought this place from—is my go-to source for horse information. But orphaned foals haven’t come up in our chats yet.
Mira slides the stall door open and takes a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine over the back of the foal, and she gives me a decisive nod before we step into the stall.
I’m nervous. It’s so unlike me. But God, I really want this to work. I don’t even care who owns the foal. The truth is, I’d have done this even if she said no to the dates. Plus, I don’t dislike Billie Black or the Harding family enough to wish this upon them. Watching my foal die this morning was heart-wrenching. I’ve come to love these animals, and watching them suffer is torture in a league of its own.
“Hey, mama. Meet baby. He’s a real sweet boy.” Mira’s voice is deep and smooth. She doesn’t use a high-pitched baby voice. It’s almost like she could hypnotize the horses into acceptance with a tone like that. Or me. I’m a sucker for her sultry voice.
She flicks her head back at me, effectively dismissing me as she holds the small red foal and lets the mare walk toward it. Stepping back into the doorway, I watch raptly. I’m not a superstitious man, but I’m not taking any chances tonight.
I shove my hands into my pockets and cross my fingers. I think I’d cross my toes if I could.
The mare’s dark globes for eyes assess the colt, and her ears flick around in confusion as she tries to sniff him. To the colt’s credit, he may be weak, but his sense of smell is just fine. I watch his head snap toward her udder, ears pointing exactly in that direction, and spindly legs follow. His back moves right beneath her flared nostrils. They’re glistening with the rub that Mira smeared there, but she must catch some small scent of the manure, because she gives him a small nuzzle on his bony haunch with her top lip.
I don’t miss the small gasp that slips past Mira’s lips. She holds her hands up off the foal like he burned her and steps back slowly. Carefully. Like she doesn’t want to break whatever momentary connection the two horses seem to have formed.
My fingers hurt from how hard I’m squeezing them across each other. I don’t move, even as Mira’s body comes to pause only a few inches away from mine.
