Page 29 of The Promises We Broke
Outside, I could see him in the main pasture, standing beside the fence with his back to the house. Even at a distance, there was something in his posture that spoke of concentration, of attention focused on something specific.
I grabbed my crutches and made my way outside, curiosity overriding my usual caution about involving myself in ranch business. The morning air was crisp with the promise of summer, and the sound of horses moving peacefully in their pastures was like a balm I hadn't realized I needed.
"You're up early," I said as I approached the fence.
"So are you," Booker replied without turning around. "Figured you might want to meet someone who understands what you're going through."
He gestured toward the far corner of the pasture, where a horse stood apart from the others. Even from a distance, I could see something was different about this one. The animal's posture was defensive, head low, ears pinned back in classic signs of an animal that had learned to expect pain instead of care.
"Bullet," Booker said, his voice carrying a weight of gratitude and grief. "He's been with the ranch for four years now. My horse."
I studied the animal more carefully, noting the faded scars along his flanks, the careful way he held his left rear leg, the alert but trusting way he watched Booker. There was something different about this horse. Not the hypervigilance of an abused animal, but the quiet dignity of one who'd proven himself when it mattered most.
"What happened to him?" I asked, seeing the obvious signs of old trauma.
"He saved my life a little over a year ago." Booker's hand found the horse's neck, stroking gently. "There was an accident with the herd. Reece's abusive ex opened the gate deliberately, trying to scare her. Horses were coming in for a feed and were spookedinto a stampede. Reece and Xander were in danger, so I rode Bullet straight into the middle of it to get them out."
My chest tightened as I realized what he was telling me. "And?"
"Bullet went down with me. Took the brunt of the trampling, shielded my body with his own." Booker's voice was quiet but steady. "Broke my arm, gave me some impressive bruises, but I'm here because this horse chose to protect me instead of protecting himself. It was touch and go for a while, but Bullet's a fighter."
I found myself reaching out to touch the horse's shoulder, feeling the muscle beneath the healed wounds. "He chose to stay and fight for you."
"Yeah." Booker's eyes met mine with uncomfortable intensity. "Sometimes the ones who love you don't give up, even when you think they should. Even when you think you're not worth the risk."
The implication wasn't subtle. Booker was suggesting that I needed exactly what this damaged horse represented. A connection that didn't require explanation or apology, just presence.
"I know what you're doing at the ranch, Book, and it's truly amazing, but I'm not really the therapy type," I said, trying to deflect the obvious parallel.
"Wasn't talking about therapy. Was talking about friendship. Two survivors figuring out how to trust again."
I looked more closely at Bullet, taking in the defensive posture that I recognized in my bones. The way he kept his head positioned to watch for threats, the careful distance from the other horses, the hyperalert attention to everything happening around him.
"He doesn't look like he wants company," I said.
"Neither do you most days. But that doesn't mean company isn't exactly what you both need."
Booker stepped into the pasture, and I followed awkwardly, my crutches sinking slightly into the soft ground. Bullet noticed our approach immediately, his ears swiveling toward us, his body tensing for potential flight.
"Easy, boy," I said quietly, keeping my voice low and calm. "We're not here to hurt you."
Something in my tone must have reached him, because Bullet's ears twitched forward slightly. Not trust, exactly, but interest. Like maybe this human was worth investigating.
"He's responding to you," Booker said, genuine surprise in his voice. "Usually takes weeks for him to show that much curiosity about strangers."
"Maybe he recognizes someone else who's not sure if it's safe to let people get close," I said, taking another careful step forward.
Bullet tensed but didn't retreat. His dark eyes stayed fixed on mine, and I had the strange sensation that he was assessing me, trying to figure out whether I represented safety or just another source of potential pain.
"I know how that feels," I continued, more to myself than to anyone else. "Not knowing if the people offering help actually mean it, or if they'll hurt you when you're not expecting it."
Bullet's ears came forward fully, and he took a tentative step in my direction.
"Take your time," I murmured. "No pressure. No expectations. Just... if you want company, I'm here... apparently. I'm still not entirely sure why I'm doing this."
For the next twenty minutes, I stood in that pasture talking nonsense to a damaged horse while my brother watched from a respectful distance. I talked about the weather, about how peaceful the ranch was, about the way the morning light madeeverything look possible. And slowly, gradually, Bullet began to relax.
He never came close enough to touch, but by the time we left the pasture, he was standing within easy reach, still wary but no longer ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
