“Leave it at the gate.”
The man twisted in his seat. “Requires a signature. Guess it’s insured.”
I muttered a curse. “What happened to Dale?”
“Dale?”
“The usual driver.” The one I’d run background checks on. I knew he spent far too much of his paycheck on his bar tab, but I also knew he was harmless. This guy was an unknown.
“No idea. Must be sick or something because I’m covering this route. Look, they time us, so are you going to open the gate or not?”
Like hell I’d let someone onto my property that I didn’t know and hadn’t fully vetted. “Stay there. I’ll come get the package.”
“You’ve got two minutes.”
My back molars ground together as I hopped into the ranch truck. I was at the front gate in just over two minutes, but the guy was still waiting. He’d carted the large package out of the back of the truck and had it balanced on the gate.
He eyed me carefully as I came to a stop and climbed out of the truck. His gaze swept over me and then behind me, trying to see what my property might house. He’d never be able to tell from here. Tall pines lined the road and hid everything. I’d planted more than enough of them to create a wall.
“You’re not gonna shoot me, are you? Heard you chased off one guy with a shotgun.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes as I motioned for the tablet to sign for my package. It was a toss-up which I hated more: going to town for supplies or ordering them online and dealing with whoever brought them.
“Asshole,” the delivery guy muttered under his breath as he handed me the pen to sign.
I scrawled something illegible across the screen and grabbed the box. I was used to people thinking I was an asshole—anda hell of a lot worse. If their opinions bothered me, I never would’ve made it through the past twenty years alive. You learned to silence the noise.
I set the box in the truck’s bed and climbed behind the wheel. I shook off the annoyance as I drove back towards the round pen. Whatever I was dealing with had no place there.
It was something I’d learned along the way. You had to shed everything that clung to you before you climbed between those fence rails. I eased to a stop and put the truck in park as the gelding eyed me. There was so much intelligence in that gaze.
My mouth curved the barest amount. If someone were watching, they wouldn’t have even seen it. But I felt it. That trickle of excitement. The feeling that this horse had a world of potential.
Turning off the engine, I tossed the keys back into the console and slid out of the truck. I shut the door but was careful to keep my movements slow and easy—no jarring sounds or flashes of speed.
I walked towards the pen and bent to pick up the training flag: a square piece of fabric attached to a pole not much thicker than a wire hanger. The gelding let out a whinny and charged the fence at the flicker of color.
I didn’t let his flash of temper halt my progress. I ducked between the fence rails and climbed into the pen. The horse pawed at the ground, throwing his head back in warning. I didn’t move.
The gelding gave a healthy buck and kicked his hind legs in my direction. I simply flicked the long-handled training flag at his outburst. He could throw his tantrum all he wanted, but he couldn’t invade my personal space. Yet I understood why.
He’d been through hell and back, and it would take time for him to trust that I wouldn’t put him through more. Boundariesand empathy. You needed them both in equal measure. That, and patience.
No matter what a horse threw your way, you couldn’t let your emotions bleed into the work. And this gelding looked as if he were going to give it the ol’ college try. He reared up on his hind legs, pawing the air. I flicked the flag again when he got close to me.
He would learn that the flag wouldn’t hurt him. It was simply a visual aid to mark a boundary. To tell him where he needed to go. He landed back on his hooves, shaking the ground, then raced around the pen. I stayed still and waited.
There was no rush. He had to know that we’d go at his pace. I wouldn’t force him.
I waited as the horse tired himself out. The gallop slowed to a trot. Then a walk. Finally, he stilled and stared at me dead-on. I didn’t move. I just let him take my measure.
I kept my gaze even with his but made sure to blink. I wasn’t trying to challenge him, just let him know that I wasn’t going anywhere. After a few minutes, I took two steps.
The horse’s muscles quivered. I stopped and gave him a chance to get used to the new normal. I repeated the process over and over until I was just a foot away.
The gelding sniffed the air. He didn’t have a name yet. I couldn’t name them until I got to know them. And that took time. Who the horse really was at its core was usually buried beneath layers of self-protection—at least, the horses who came to me.
I raised my hand slowly, letting him get a good sniff. Once he had my scent, I moved my hand to his cheek and stroked. I kept the movements nice and slow. He had to know that touch didn’t always have to hurt. I knew better than most that it was a hard lesson to learn.