Page 35 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"I've never worked with horses before," she admits. "I should probably mention that."
"They'll teach you what you need to know." Meadow runs a hand along Willow's neck, the mare leaning into his touch. "Horses are honest creatures. No hidden agendas, no lies. They respond to energy more than experience."
Marigold's gaze drifts down to her hands — the elegant fingers of a dancer now fidgeting with uncertainty.
"And if they don't like me?"
"They'll like you."
That’s given. I can tell without even thinking about it.
Her eyebrows draw together.
"How can you be so sure?"
Meadow considers his words carefully, knowing instinctively that platitudes won't work with her.
"Because animals recognize kindness. And pain." He meets her eyes directly. "They know when someone understands what it means to be hurt."
Something shifts in her expression — surprise, perhaps, at being seen so clearly, followed by a flicker of connection that vanishes almost instantly behind her carefully constructed walls.
"Seven o'clock," she repeats, taking a step back. "I should get going. Thank you for...this." She gestures vaguely around the stable.
"No need for thanks. We'll see how it goes." He deliberately keeps his tone casual, sensing her need for escape, for processing space.
Marigold hesitates, seeming to search for something else to say, then simply nods and turns, walking with that precise, measured grace toward the stable doors.
Meadow watches her leave, the fading scent of rain-soaked wildflowers lingering in her wake.
Only when her form disappears around the bend does he exhale fully, the tension in his shoulders releasing.
"What do you think, girl?" he murmurs to Willow, who snorts softly in response. "Yeah. Me too."
She’s going to be a keeper…now I have to figure out how long I can last.
6
NOTHING BUT RESPECTING BOUNDARIES
~MEADOW~
That evening, Meadow stands at his kitchen counter, chopping vegetables with mechanical precision.
The rhythm of the knife against the cutting board creates a steady background noise to his circling thoughts. Steam rises from the pot of simmering stew, fogging the window that overlooks his property, blurring the landscape into indistinct shapes of amber and gold as the sun begins its descent.
The cabin —built by his own hands over three summers—feels especially empty tonight. He's grown accustomed to solitude, and even come to appreciate it, but occasionally the silence presses in, reminding him of all he's chosen to leave behind.
"Damn it," he mutters, realizing he's been cutting the same carrot for nearly a minute, reducing it to tiny, uneven pieces.
He scrapes the vegetables into the pot and wipes his hands on a dish towel, trying to focus on the practical matters at hand rather than the emerald-eyed distraction that keeps invading his thoughts.
Hiring Marigold makes sense.
The ranch work has been piling up, and Flint and Gus have their own responsibilities. Eli is there once in a while, and he has a few other men who come and go when they have the spare time in their schedule, but nothing permanent.
An extra pair of hands will be useful, especially with winter approaching. It's a business decision, nothing more.
The lie tastes bitter even in the privacy of his own mind.
