Duncan was stunned. In fact, he was in awe. He hadn’t seen her fight her way back to health, but the mere thought of having to relearn everything about being a person overwhelmed him. And here she was, talking about it like it was just a thing that happened, a thing in her past.
“Tonight was pretty stressful,” he said, unable to think of anything better he could say. “And you dealt with that great.”
She smiled at him. “You weren’t around for the huge meltdown I had in my truck after about a half-hour of being ignored. There was snot and drool and everything. Also, I cracked the dash.”
“I could name five people off the top of my head who would have lost their shit at being stranded on the side of the road in the middle of a January night with a sick, scared horse, and not one of them had to relearn how to walk and talk after they got blown up. I’m sure I would have at least punched something and broken my hand.”
“That’s a nice thing to say,” she told the side window. “It’s not the same, but it’s a nice thing to say.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Trust me,” Phoebe said. “My mom and I were oil and water. Or maybe—what was the experiment we did in high school?—potassium chlorate and sugar. We got too close to each other and something went boom every time. Turn right at the stop sign. Once my dad passed and there wasn’t anybody between us anymore, it got bad. It was better for everyone involved that she went to Florida and left me behind, and I don’t think she gave a shit that I was in a coma when she got sick and died.”
Duncan stopped at the crossroads that would put him on the gravel road to Ragamuffin Ranch. He looked over, gave her a quick, examining look, and smiled. “I guess you’re the sugar in that metaphor?”
Relieved that he’d chosen to take the lighthearted route through her thorny story, Phoebe grinned. “Let’s go with that, yeah.”
Not much more than two hours ago, she’d been in full meltdown, sitting in an increasingly cold truck while she drowned in panic and rage—and with a horse in even worse shape than her own. No phone, no truck, no hope of any rescue. Every asshole that had flown right past her waving arms had been a little bit of shrapnel to her psyche.
Then, while she was out of sight in the trailer, trying to bring Smoky down from his full-blown panic, a savior had appeared.
A calm, capable, kind savior. Strong and steady. Easy on the eyes, too.
She liked this guy. Enough that she’d spent the past hour puking most of her life story on him.
That part wasn’t entirely her fault. He kept asking questions like he was really interested, and not in the trauma-porn way. Just like he simply wanted to know about her.
It hadn’t been an interview, either. She knew he was her age, that he lived in his family home, too—though he lived with his parents. He was the middle child, with two sisters, and his older sister was a vet who’d just won an award for her work with rescues.
He’d asked if Phoebe knew his sister, Kelsey, and the name maybe seemed a little familiar, but no. Phoebe probably knew all the large-animal rescue folks in the state, and a good handful of the veterinarians who donated time and resources to caring for those big babies, but that was because they were a pretty small group. A whole lot more people focused on rescuing puppies and kittens.
So no, Phoebe didn’t know his sister. But the connection point of rescue work was nice.
He’d also told her he was a Brazen Bull. That was less nice.
She didn’t have a problem with motorcycles, or with motorcycle clubs. Though she didn’t think she’d ever broken more than the speed limit—not even shoplifting a candy bar as a kid—she didn’t necessarily have a philosophical problem with breaking the law. She’d been poor or close to it all her life, and she lived in a community where most people were like her. She’d seen plenty of evidence that laws pretty much only applied to regular people; rich fuckers could do most anything they wanted and get away with it. She didn’t hold much stock in rules that applied only to the powerless.
However, the Bulls were professional outlaws. One-percenters. Clubs like theirs considered themselves soldiers in some kind of war, and Phoebe had seen all she could stomach of war. So she wasn’t thrilled Duncan was one of those outlaws who thought they were soldiers.
Not that it really mattered. She hadn’t been in a relationship since high school, and she hadn’t been interested in another since she’d come home from a real war. Her Hitachi handled her needs just fine. And she had all the family she needed right here on Ragamuffin Ranch.
Still, she found herself disappointed that her new friend Duncan wasn’t perfect.
“There on the right—the big oak? That’s my road.”
Duncan followed her directions. He was good pulling the trailer. Probably he’d done some time driving the wrecker at his station.
“Road is a pretty ambitious term here,” Duncan snarked as they bounced over the rutted gravel lane.
Phoebe laughed. “Yeah, I need to get it graded. I will when then cold weather ends.” If she could scrounge up the funds. “Thanks for being careful for Smoky.”
“Is there weed for horses? Because that poor guy is gonna need to smoke a bowl after this night. You, too.”
“Actually, yes, there is weed for horses. It’s CBD, not THC, but yeah, there’s some calming benefits. But refeeding a starved horse is a delicate balance, so weed’s not a good idea until I understand his bigger issues.”
They crested the last rise; in the shallow valley before them lay her family home, bathed in the sickly yellow light of three dusk-to-dawns.
“Pretty,” Duncan said, half under his breath.
To Phoebe this was simply home. She knew of the stable roof that was well past its prime, the leaky basement, the rotting back porch with the ancient wringer washer rusting away in the corner. The tractor she was keeping running with hope and enthusiasm. The fences that needed a new coat of sealant. And now she could add a truck with no engine to her list of derelicts and rejects.
But Duncan’s quiet, single word conjured a spell to brighten her vision. Setting aside her list of things she struggled to afford to replace or repair, Phoebe saw the cheerful red of the house, the bright white trim, the twinkle of Christmas lights she was always slow to pull down. She saw the dormant strawberry pyramid, and the big oaks that sheltered the picnic tables and the brick barbecue pit. The tidy stable full of animals she’d made whole and happy.
This was home, and she loved it. Yes, it was pretty.
“Thanks. The stable’s off to the right there. If you pull up at the doors, I’ll get Smoky out, and we can free you up.”
He nodded and turned toward the stable.
When he parked outside the double doors, Phoebe climbed out at once and headed to Smoky. She was only slightly surprised to find Duncan right there at the back of the trailer, ready to keep helping. Together they got Smoky out—he was much happier to leave the trailer than to enter it, and his opinion of Duncan had improved from terror to suspicion—and she walked him into the stable.
As soon as she stepped in and turned on the center lights, every occupied stall suddenly had a head over the door—or, in the cases of Klaxon and Daisy, a burro and a miniature horse, a head through the door—and the air filled with nickers and yawns.