Page 25 of Trussed In Hope
Her laughter warmed the space, but her eyes stayed locked on me, burning with a promise neither of us had spoken aloud yet.
Emberlynn stepped up to the fence, her hand brushing along the rail as if she needed something to anchor herself. The horse nudged my arm, restless, and I used it as an excuse to look away from her for half a second.
“So?” she asked, her tone too casual to be innocent. “What’s the verdict? Do they all pass your inspection?”
I lifted the clipboard, flipping a page like I actually needed to double-check. “They’re solid. Well-fed, coats look good, hooves aren’t neglected. Whoever had them before knew what they were doing.”
“You’ve been here five days,” she said softly, “and this is the first time you’ve actually come to see the animals. Why?”
I met her stare, steady. “Because I do things on my time. Not anyone else’s.”
Her eyes searched mine as if she were trying to decide whether to push further. “So what now? You ride around, make notes, and call it good?”
I almost smiled, but it didn’t quite reach my mouth. “No. Now I figure out what belongs here—and what doesn’t.”
The words hung between us, sharp enough that even she seemed to catch the double meaning. The horse shifted beside me, impatient, but I didn’t move. Neither did she.
I gestured for her to follow me out of the feed room, leading her back down the barn aisle. The smell of leather and hay clung to us, heavy and grounding. Diesel snorted from his stall, watching like he knew he’d started something between us that neither of us could walk away from.
“Lesson three,” I said, my voice carrying in the quiet barn. “Pressure and release.”
Her brows knit, curious. “Pressure and release?”
“Every animal responds to it. You apply pressure—your leg against a horse’s side, your hand on a lead rope, even your voice—and they move. You release the pressure when they give you what you want. It’s how they learn. How they trust.”
I stopped by Diesel’s stall and laid my palm against the wood, leaning in just enough to keep him close without crowding him. “It’s about timing. You give too much pressure too fast, you break trust. But if you never push, you get nowhere.”
Her lips parted, and her gaze locked on mine. “So… it’s about control again.”
“It’s about control,” I agreed, my tone low, steady, deliberate. “But more than that—it’s about knowing exactly when to let go.”
For a moment, the air between us pulsed, thick and electric. She swallowed, her throat working, and I could almost feel theway she was turning my words over in her head, applying them to more than just animals.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And if you get it wrong?”
I held her stare, not letting her look away. “Then you’ve got a fight on your hands.”
Her breath caught had faintest sound, and she stepped back half a pace—just enough to steady herself, not enough to break the charge between us.
The barn creaked in the silence, a slow groan of old wood settling, but neither of us moved.
I unlatched Diesel’s stall, sliding the door open with a quiet scrape. The gelding’s ears flicked forward, his dark eyes steady on me as if he already knew what I had in mind.
“Come here,” I said, handing Emberlynn the lead rope.
She blinked, surprised. “Me?”
“You wanted to learn,” I reminded her. “Lesson three isn’t something you can just listen to. You’ve got to feel it.”
She hesitated, then took the rope from my hand. Diesel shifted, nostrils flaring as he sized her up.
“Pressure and release,” I said quietly, stepping behind her, close enough that my breath whispered along her ear. “You lift the rope, put the slightest tension on it, and he’ll move. The second he does what you want, you release. That’s how he learns to trust you.”
Emberlynn lifted her hand, cautious but steady. Diesel took a single step toward her.
“Good,” I murmured. “Now drop your hand, loosen the rope.”
She obeyed, and Diesel stilled, watching her as if he approved. She let out a laugh, soft and nervous.
