Page 26 of A False Start
Then I drove all the way back, trying for the life of me to figure out why I’d buy the girl a fucking horse and then spend hours of my day figuring out transportation for it. Aside from the fact that I personally can’t handle the thought of a horse being sent to slaughter, it doesn’t add up. I saved Spot from the same fate, all skin and bones and dull coat with dead eyes, like he already knew what end he was facing.
I wish I could save every horse at those auctions from that fate.
But none of that equates to a rational reason to buy Nadia Dalca an injured racehorse. I could have just bought myself a second horse.
But I know she wanted one. And I’m still not over her referring to herself as broken. Nursing Spot back to health made me feel a little less broken, and maybe this horse can do that for her, too.
All I know is that when she turned around, I saw her heart crumple in her beautiful brown eyes. There’s an innocence about her I can’t quite figure out. Did she not know about the dirty underbelly of this industry? The number of horses that are tossed away when their money-making ability expires?
She was a sassy, lippy teenager two years ago, and now, she’s transformed into someone buffed to a beautiful, fake shine.
Just now, there was a crack in the smooth surface she’s manifested for herself. And I recognized the hell out of that sentiment. Of that look. I see it in the mirror, staring back at me now and then.
I hate that look on anyone. A dog. A friend. That friend’s little sister.
I mean, shit. Even that horse was looking like he knew it was the end of the line. So, saving him seemed like an easy fix. I’m a sucker for a horse that needs saving. Ask Spot.
Except now, Nadia is staring at me as we drive through Vancouver traffic toward the highway. I can feel her gaze tracing the lines of my face so heavily that she might as well be running a finger over them. I know getting a horse was on her list. I overheard that part of their conversation that morning, and I have the resources to do it. So why the fuck not? It was a nice, perfectly innocent thing to do.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Thank you. For doing what you didearlier. Today. Just all of it.” Her palm presses into the center of her chest. “I’m overwhelmed.”
She was easier to brush off when she had the bratty little sister act down. This version of her is harder to keep from getting under my skin.
“Welcome.” My fingers squeeze the steering wheel, and I force myself to keep my eyes on the road as silence stretches between us. Usually, I like silence. But right now, it’s awkward because there’s a lot to say and no one is saying a thing.
“How much did you pay for him?” Her fingers twist together in her lap, and she stares down at them.
“Doesn’t matter. Don’t bother t-t-trying to pay me back.” I scrub one hand over my beard, grateful it covers some of the heat creeping up my throat. “Consider him a gift. My way of saying sorry.” I let my eyes wander over to her. She’s still staring at her lap. Her lips press together, and she gives a small shake of her head.
“Okay.”
A quiet chuckle rumbles in my chest. An attempt to break the tension. “Expected a fight from you, Wildflower.”
She lifts her molten brown eyes, dark lashes providing the perfect frame for them. “I don’t think anyone has ever given me a more thoughtful gift, Griffin.” My lungs fill with thick air. Her smile is watery but sincere, and then she turns herself toward the window and watches the flow of traffic around us.
Anyone?
The word rattles around in my brain as I think about all the things I’ve received in my life, all the awesome experiences my parents have provided. The gifts, the vacations, the sentimental little trinkets along the way. I would never have guessed an injured racehorse purchased bymewould rank up there for her.
It’s not until we’ve made it out of the city that she speaks again. “Has Stefan ever told you about our family?”
“That they died in a plane wreck?”
She nods. “Anything else?”
I wrack my brain and realize he hasn’t. “No.”
“My dad was a drunk.”
I grunt. So was I. What am I supposed to do? Judge the guy?
“He beat the hell out of our mom.”
Yes. I am supposed to judge this piece of shit.
“Stefan left for boarding school when I was a baby. He only came back in the summers. Then I had someone to hide in the closet with while it happened.”
