Page 8 of Brim Over Boot
Fuck.
My feet feel unsteady as I rejoin my brother. Remi’s eyes sweep over me quickly, concern in his gaze. His hands move swiftly in question, the motions choppy and agitated.‘What the hell was that? You have a death wish all of a sudden?’
My head shake is slow.‘Can’t stand the guy.’
He rolls his eyes in ano shitmanner.‘Doesn’t explain why you went after him.’
“I don’t know,” I grumble aloud, hand rubbing down my face.
Remi flicks my shoulder before tapping his chin, a perplexed frown on his face as he asks me what I said. And because I love my brother, I’ll never, ever deny repeating anything he didn’t catch the first time regardless of whether or not the words are ones I want to repeat.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what that was, okay? He…’
My hands wave around absently as I search for words before I let them fall at my sides with a groan. Remi pats my shoulder, as if he gets it.
I’m not even sureIget it.
Yes, Noah has always been a burr under my heel, but I’m not in the habit of purposefully antagonizing the man. I’ve never once tried to get him to—what? Snap right in front of me?
I shake out my arms, certain I don’t want to find out what Noah might do to me under properly provoked circumstances. The guy is…not scary, exactly. But there’s a threat there. One I should do my best to steer clear of.
‘I don’t know,’I sign again, shaking my head because I truly don’t have an answer.‘Let’s get out of here.’
Remi nods, handing over the hat I’d dropped in my haste to chase after Noah. I tug the tag off after paying and plop the hat on my head, the wide brim doing its job of keeping the sun off my face as we head outside. Even so, I blink up at the sky for just a moment, the compulsion like pressing a bruise you know is going to ache.
Shaking my head once more, I face forward and put Noah fucking King firmly out of my mind.
Itry.Ireallydo.
On Monday, I head to the Morenos’ farm for their horses’ routine shoeings. Most of my work is exactly that: routine. A horse’s hoof grows the same way as human fingernails. The horseshoe prevents it from wearing down naturally as it would in the wild. That’s where the farrier comes in, among a good many other duties. We trim down the excess hoof, both the sole and the outer walls, and reaffix the metal shoe that strengthens and protects the workhorse’s hooves. They’d wear far too quickly without it, causing more harm than good for the horse.
It’s a painless process, assuming the horse has no hoof injuries that need tending to. The horseshoe can help with that, too.
What’s not painless?
The fact that, no matter how hard I try, I cannotget Noah King off my mind.
On Tuesday, I’m a county over, hitting a handful of single-horse clients in the area. As I pull shoes free, use my loop knife to scrape away overgrown frog on the underside of hooves, hammer in nails, crimp and rasp off the excess metal, and smooth down the surface of over a dozen hoof walls, Noah King is on my mind. As my back gets nibbled on by curious horses and the muscles in my arms and legs ache, I hope Noah King is aching just as badly.More. The man deserves it.
On Wednesday, when I’m pounding a new set of shoes into shape, sweat trickling down my temple, I wonder where Noah King even came from. The man just popped up in town fifteen years ago, a chip on his shoulder and hate in his eyes that seemed directed at me more than anyone. Where was he before? How did he learn to shoe? Was he self-taught, or did he go to school for farrier science, learn equine anatomy and physiology as I did, maybe even train in welding?
I don’t know. And I shouldn’t care.
On Thursday, I’m back at the ranch. Or, rather, Istayon the ranch. I wake up at my leisure, the sun drifting in through the window letting me know I succeeded in my plan to sleep in. I’m slow to get out of bed for no other reason than I can be.
I like that hazy morning feeling, where the sheets are warm and rumpled and it’s oh so easy to drift in the space between asleep and awake. I laze there now, my hand sinking down my abdomen toward my crotch. Until Noah fucking King’s face pops into my head.
With a scowl, I throw back my covers and swing out of bed. By the time I get downstairs, the ranchers are in the dining room, eating their eleven o’clock lunch. I pass Ash in the doorway, tossing him an upnod and a mumbled “Morning” he looks amused by.
The scraping of utensils against nearly two dozen plates and the many conversations floating down the exceptionally long dining table are part of every mealtime here at the Darling Ranch. Most of my family is present, apart from Lawson, who’s at the school, teaching. Jackson is sitting across from an empty space that Ash likely vacated. Remi is having a conversation with Ira, one of the longtime ranch hands, Remi’s head angled in Ira’s direction and his eyes on the other man’s lips to help catch his words amidst the various sounds in the room. Even my mom and dad are here, seemingly bickering over one thing or another, as they always do.
I plop down in an empty seat and grab a fancy-looking ham sandwich.
“Morning, Colton,” my mom says lightly, her voice as amused as the look Ash threw me a minute ago.
I glance down at myself, checking that I’m dressed. I am.
“Morning,” I reply, snagging a serving bowl that still has some pasta salad inside. I load a heaping spoonful on my plate as I chew my bite of sandwich. Ash is a damn good cook—I’ll give him that.
