Page 4 of Preacher

But little did I know, I was about to get the distraction of a lifetime.

2

TABITHA

"You know, we could do this for you.”

“No, you couldn’t,” I argued. “I need to see them for myself.”

“But why?” Nikolai pushed. “This place is a shithole, and these poor animals should be put out of their misery.”

My youngest wasn’t wrong. It was awful. The place reeked of sweat, manure, and the sharp tang of desperation. I knew it too well. I’d lived it, breathed it, and survived it. But these poor souls were still fighting for their tomorrow.

They stood in these rusted pens with ribs pressing against their skin and their eyes hollowed out from the kind of fear that only comes when you've been beaten down and left with nothing. I kept my focus on the entry gate as I told him, “Because I need to see them for myself.”

“So, you can pick out the worst of the worst.”

“So, I can pick out the ones who need us the most.”

I grimaced as I watched the man lead out the next horse. It was a broken mare with a clouded eye. She was a brown and white swayback who looked like she hadn't known kindness in years and had been discarded like she meant nothing to anyone. It was a feeling I knew all too well.

When I stepped forward, Nikolai groaned, “Oh, Mom. Come on. Not her. Hell, she’s on her last leg.”

“That’s exactly why I want her.” I slipped on my glove and called out, “Two hundred!”

A few heads turned. Some recognized me. Others, the ones with new money and soft hands, didn’t yet know better than to question a Volkov. Not that it mattered. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.

The mare was going to be mine.

She wasn't pretty, at least not by society’s standards. She was too old and too worn. But once she was home with me, she’d have a warm stall and a full belly, and she would have the freedom to breathe without the weight of a heavy hand hammering down on her. It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t take away the years of pain she’d endured, but it would be a start.

They’d barely led her out of the ring before they were bringing in another horse. This one was a tall bay, and his coat was dulled by filth and lack of care. It was hard to believe he was anything but a workhorse, but I could see it. He was still holding onto a whisper of his former glory, and that was enough for me.

His ears flicked back at the crack of the whip, and he jolted with an urge to run. I’d seen enough to call out, “Three hundred!”

"Four," some ranch hand countered.

I glanced over and quickly recognized his hard face. He was a buyer for the kill pens, and he looked eager. I wasn’t going to let that scare me off. I leveled him with a stare as I spat, “Five.”

He hesitated.

He knew the name. Dimitri Volkov had been a cruel, powerful man, but his widow was a different breed of dangerous. The hammer fell, and he was mine. They weren’t much to the world, but it was their time to know a life of kindness.

Maybe I saw too much of myself in them, or maybe I just had too much damn money and no one to tell me how to spend it. Either way, they'd get their chance to know kindness and a sense of security.

And most of all, they'd know what it felt like to be free.

The auction dragged on. It was one broken soul after another. Nikolai was growing tired of the gloom and was itching to get the hell out of there. “Okay, Mom. You’ve picked up three today. That’s more than enough.”

“I know. I know. Just a few more minutes.”

He was right. I’d already bought more than I planned. I already had eight that were still on the mend, but they were slowly beginning to thrive. They were still far from being as healthy as my thoroughbreds and Arabians, but they were holding their own. And it wasn’t like we didn’t have room for more.

We had over two hundred acres and barn for forty or more. I planned to fill every one of them, but it was a process that couldn’t be done in a day. I was coming to terms with the fact that the day was coming to an end when I saw her.

A beautiful, brown and white mare with a swollen belly that swayed with every limping step. She was barely more than a filly herself, and her ribs pressed against stretched skin. Her front foot was bad. It looked to be an old injury that had been left to fester. That was enough for most to pass her by, including me, but then, I caught a glimpse of her eyes.

They were big, dark, and filled with the kind of resignation that only comes when you’ve been failed too many times.

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