Page 19 of The Shield
I turned before I could grin so hard my face split, and started walking, the drumbeat of the forecast under my feet, the text thread open on my screen like permission. I didn’t look back.
I felt him, anyway.
8
ETHAN
We walked for a while, the distance stretching in my mind though it couldn’t have been more than a few blocks, the city’s rhythm settling around us like a quiet companion that knew better than to intrude.
Natalie moved with a steady purpose, her steps light yet confident, pointing out the small hazards along the way—the grates that concealed uneven potholes, the low spots where water gathered like forgotten secrets after a rain. She spoke easily about the tides, describing how the city seemed to breathe with their rise and fall, a cycle most people chose to overlook.
I found myself listening more than talking, her voice wrapping around me with a warmth that cut through the morning’s lingering haze. There was a quiet spark in her explanations, not loud or forced, but genuine—like she held the weight of this place deep in her bones and felt no hesitation in sharing it.
She laughed once, a soft and fleeting sound, when I asked about the worst flood she’d ever mapped, her hand brushing my arm in a moment that felt accidental. Neither of us pulled awayimmediately, and for a brief span, that touch lingered. When we reached a stretch of shops where the awnings dipped low, the sun casting a sharper angle, she glanced at her watch and let out a small sigh.
"I’ve got to circle back to the office. Need to prepare for whatever the sky decides to send our way."
I nodded, feeling a stronger pull to keep walking than I cared to admit. "Thanks for the tour."
Her eyes met mine, lingering a moment longer than necessary, carrying a hint of something unspoken. "Anytime. Text if you need drain advice."
We parted with a simple nod, her turning toward the hum of traffic while I watched until the crowd enveloped her. We’d agreed to meet again at three.
The air felt heavier afterward, emptier somehow. I brushed it aside. Flapjack. That’s what I needed. Not the smooth streets or the echo of her laughter still fading in my thoughts. The stables. Him. A return to something grounding.
The drive to Dominion Hall was brief, the private road winding through oaks draped with heavy moss, their branches seeming to murmur warnings in the stillness. The gates opened smoothly, without delay, as if they’d been expecting me. But it wasn’t Atlas standing there this time. A different man waited, his truck parked casually in the drive, an old-school doctor bag slung over his shoulder—black leather, worn at the edges, the kind that hinted at a history of hard use. He was solidly built, not as broad as Atlas but with a wiry strength, his grin arriving easily, as if he held a private joke he was willing to share.
"Ethan," he said, his voice low with a rough edge, laced with a drawl that carried a casual command. There was amusement in it, too, like he found life to be a long, entertaining game. "Heard you were coming back for your boy. Name’s Charlie. I’m Atlas’s brother."
I shook his hand—firm, straightforward, the calluses speaking of hands that had mended more than they’d broken. His eyes crinkled slightly, the grin widening just a bit. "Thought you should know that Flapjack’s already got the run of the place. Staff’s half in love with him, half terrified he’ll step on them." He chuckled, a low and relaxed sound, as if the idea pleased him on some level. "Come on. Stables are this way. You look like a man who needs to see his partner in crime."
I fell into step beside him, the bag swaying gently at his side. "You a doctor?"
"Something like that," he replied, brushing it off with a light shrug. "I fix what breaks. People, mostly. Sometimes horses, if they ask nicely." That grin returned, teasing at the corners. "Flapjack hasn’t complained yet."
We rounded the house, the grounds opening into a vast expanse of green, the air carrying a faint, sweet scent of fresh hay and polished leather. The stables came into view, and I paused for a moment, taking it all in. They were the finest I’d ever seen, cleaner than some of the operating rooms I’d passed through in rougher places. Long and low, constructed from aged brick that complemented the hall’s stone, the roof pitched gently with copper gutters that gleamed dully in the sunlight. The doors were wide enough for a team, painted a deep green, each stall framed with wrought iron bars polished to a soft sheen, free of rust or neglect.
Inside, the aisle stretched spotless, the rubber-matted floors swept daily, drains sealed tight against the damp. A tack room sat to one side, its walls lined with saddles oiled to a supple finish, bridles hung with precision on hooks, bits catching the light. Feed bins were clearly labeled, supplements stacked in neatly measured bins. Air vents hummed quietly, drawing out the humidity to keep the space cool and dry despite the heat pressing from outside. At the end, a wash stall waited with hosescoiled neatly, cross-ties cushioned in leather. Farther back, a lounge for the hands offered worn but comfortable sofas, a low humming fridge, and a whiteboard marked with rotations and vet notes.
Not just a barn. A sanctuary, built with care.
"Impressed?" Charlie asked, his tone laced with that same amusement, as if he could read the thoughts crossing my face.
"More than," I admitted, keeping my voice even. "Our spread back home was solid, but this? This is something else."
He clapped my shoulder lightly, guiding me down the aisle. "We take care of our own. Horses included."
Voices drifted ahead, a soft murmur of conversation and a familiar nicker that drew me closer. A small crowd gathered at Flapjack’s stall—three hands, a couple of staff in polo shirts, one holding a carrot as if it were a peace offering. Flapjack stood tall at the back, his stall deep-bedded with shavings as fresh as new snow, a water bucket filled to the brim, a hay net half-empty but fluffed loosely.
He perked his ears at the sound of my voice before I even turned the corner, his dark eyes locking onto mine, a soft whuffle reaching out to pull me in.
"Ethan," one of the hands said, stepping back quickly, the group dispersing as if they’d been waiting for my arrival. "He’s had a good morning. Grazed the paddock, groomed twice—the kid over there wouldn’t stop until his mane shone."
I nodded my thanks, slipping the latch open, Flapjack’s head dropping to nudge my chest with a warm, heavy pressure. That touch grounded me, as solid as the earth after a storm—his breath hot against my shirt, whiskers brushing my skin, a quiet rumble in his throat that seemed to say he’d missed me but had eaten well in my absence. I scratched his poll, feeling the muscles relax under my fingers, the world shrinking to just the two of us.
The attendant—a young man, wiry with quick, capable hands—stayed back respectfully. "Ate like a champ. Oats with molasses, a couple of apples from the orchard. We turned him out mid-morning; he took charge around the water trough, bossing the geldings."
"Sounds like him," I said, my voice low, hand resting steady on Flapjack’s neck. That simple connection eased the tension—the walk with Natalie still lingering under my skin, the subtle pull of this place tugging at edges I kept buried. Here, with him, it all quieted.
