Page 33 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
He watches as Marigold extends her hand, palm up, and waits.
Her patience surprises him — most people want immediate connection, immediate results. But she stands perfectly still, her breathing controlled and even, until Echo gradually stretches her neck forward, nostrils flaring as she catches the Omega's scent.
"She's beautiful," Marigold whispers as Echo's soft muzzle finally brushes against her palm.
"She is," Meadow agrees, though he finds his attention divided between the mare and the woman standing beforehim, her face transformed by a tentative smile that sends an unexpected jolt through his system. "Would you like to meet the others?"
“Certainly!”
As they move through the stable, Meadow points out each horse, describing their personalities and quirks. Marigold listens attentively, asking thoughtful questions that reveal a quick intelligence behind her reserved manner.
"What do you do with them all?" she asks after he introduces her to Phantom, a spirited black gelding with a white blaze down his face.
"Rehabilitation mostly. Some training." He runs a hand along Phantom's neck. "I take in horses that need help…abused, neglected, behavioral issues. Work with them until they're ready for new homes or, for some, permanent sanctuary here."
"And you do this alone?"
"Mostly. Have a part-time hand who comes three days a week. My sister helps when she's home from college." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "Could use more help, actually. It’s why I had those posters distributed hoping someone would be willing to commit to the tedious task."
Her posture stiffens slightly.
"Are you offering me a job, Mr. Calloway?"
"Meadow," he corrects gently. "And yes, if you're interested." He keeps his tone neutral, matter-of-fact. "Nothing formal. You can set your own hours, work at your own pace. Just basic care to start. Feeding, grooming, maybe some exercise once you're comfortable."
She studies him, those forest-green eyes searching his face.
"Why would you offer that to someone you barely know?”
"The horses don't care about your past," he says simply. "Neither do I. They just respond to how you treat them in the present moment." He shrugs, uncomfortable with prolongedexplanation. "Plus, they're good judges of character. They seem to like you already."
As if to prove his point, a dappled gray mare stretches her head over her stall door, nickering softly at Marigold.
"That's Willow," Meadow says. "She doesn't usually take to strangers."
Marigold approaches the mare slowly, letting her sniff her hand before stroking her forehead.
"I don't know anything about horses."
"You can learn. If you want to." He leans against a post, deliberately casual. "Being around them... it helps. With healing. Finding purpose when you feel lost." He looks away, uncomfortable with revealing even that much of himself. "No pressure either way."
The silence stretches between them, filled only with the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and the distant call of birds outside.
Meadow knows not to rush her. He recognizes the weight of consideration in her stillness, the careful calculation behind those guarded eyes.
The decision should be hers alone.
Many in his position —an Alpha with resources offering help to an Omega in need— would press the advantage, rush her choice to satisfy their own instincts for immediate resolution.
He simply waits.
Sunlight filters through the barn's high windows, casting golden rectangles across the hay-strewn floor. Marigold's slender fingers continue tracing patterns on Willow's forehead, her movements precise and deliberate — the muscle memory of a dancer evident even in this simple gesture.
"I don't want charity," she finally says, her voice quiet but firm.
"It's not charity. It's an exchange." He meets her gaze steadily. "You need something to do. I need help with the horses. They respond well to Omegas. Always have."
She arches an eyebrow.
