Page 32 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"Easy girl," he soothes, keeping his voice low and steady. "Nobody's going to hurt you here."
Slowly, with infinite patience, he guides the mare through simple exercises, rewarding each small victory with gentle praise and the occasional sugar cube. This is what he knows — the language of trust built through consistent kindness, the slow healing of wounded creatures.
"You're doing great," he murmurs as Echo finally allows him to stroke her neck without flinching. "See? Not so scary after all."
The parallels aren't lost on him. He wonders if Marigold will be as difficult to reach; as quick to startle. Whatever —or whoever— broke her spirit has left scars he recognizes all too well.
The thought of her living with that pain makes something fierce and protective rise in his chest.
"She's not yours to protect," he reminds himself sternly.
But even as he forms the thought, he knows it's already too late. Something in him has already decided otherwise — the same instinct that drives him to shelter wounded animals, to nurse them back to health and purpose.
The distant sound of tires on gravel reaches his ears, and his head turns sharply toward the driveway. His heart rate picks up, a rush of anticipation flooding his system.
"Steady now," he whispers, and he's not sure if he's talking to Echo or himself.
Meadow steps back from Echo, giving her space as he wipes his hands on the rough denim of his jeans. Through the open barn door, he watches Marigold's small figure emerge from her car, hesitant as a fawn at the edge of a clearing.
He didn’t even knew that she drove, but with how Willowbend was set up, you’d need a car by default to get around in a timely manner. She must be renting it from the local car shop. They do good deals for those who come to stay and mend whatever they left behind
The morning light catches in her emerald hair, creating a halo effect that makes something in his chest tighten.
She moves with unconscious grace, each step precise and measured—the disciplined posture of her former life evident in the straight line of her spine, though there's a new fragility to her movements, as if she's constantly bracing for impact.
She pauses midway to the barn, eyes scanning the property with wary attention.
When their gazes finally meet, Meadow offers nothing more than a quiet nod, careful to keep his posture relaxed and non-threatening. The Alpha in him wants to rush forward, to overwhelm her with reassurance and protection, but he knows better.
She's skittish enough without him crowding her space.
"Morning," he calls softly when she's close enough, his voice pitched low and steady. "Glad you found the place all right."
"It wasn't difficult," she replies, her voice carrying that cultured precision he noticed before. "Your directions were very clear."
Her scent reaches him even from this distance — a complex blend of wildflowers after rain with underlying notes ofsomething deeper and more melancholic. How he wants to get closer, to breathe her in properly.
Meadow clenches his jaw against the impulse.
"Would you like to see the horses?"
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with fingers that tremble slightly.
"Yes, please. I'd like that."
"This is Echo," he says, gesturing toward the bay mare watching them with liquid eyes. "She came to us about three months ago. The previous owner didn't treat her well."
Something flashes across Marigold's face — recognition, empathy perhaps.
"How can you tell?"
"The way she holds herself. How she flinches at certain movements." Meadow keeps his focus on the horse, giving Marigold space to observe without feeling observed herself. "Takes time to rebuild trust once it's been broken."
The silence between them feels weighted with unspoken understanding.
"May I?" Marigold asks, taking a tentative step forward.
"Slow movements," he advises. "Let her come to you if she wants. No pressure."
