Page 4 of The Shield
Ikilled the engine in the far corner of the Isle of Palms lot, where asphalt gave way to scrub and sand. The truck’s rumble faded, leaving only the distant crash of waves and the restless hum of a packed beach. Too many people. Too much noise.
My fingers tightened on the wheel, itching to throw the F-350 into reverse and peel out, find somewhere quiet where the world didn’t press in like a bad habit. But Flapjack, my Percheron, shifted in the trailer behind me, his massive hooves clunking against the metal floor. He let out a low, impatient nicker, the kind that said he’d been cooped up too long and wasn’t about to let me sulk in the driver’s seat.
“All right, buddy,” I muttered, shoving the door open. “You win.”
The air hit me first—thick, warm, carrying the tang of seaweed and sunscreen. I squinted into the glare, the lot crammed with SUVs and minivans, families hauling coolers, kids darting between cars with plastic shovels. Not my scene. Never was. But Flapjack nudged the trailer again, harder thistime, and I couldn’t ignore the message. He wanted out. He wanted to move. And hell, so did I.
I swung open the trailer gate, and Flapjack’s big head swung toward me, dark eyes steady, ears twitching. At nineteen hands, he was a beast—coal-black, built like a tank, the kind of horse that could carry a man my size without breaking a sweat. Percherons weren’t common on beaches, or anywhere outside a farm, but Flapjack wasn’t just any horse. He was mine. My best friend. The only one who’d stuck with me through years of blood and bullshit.
I led him out, his hooves thudding heavy on the ramp, and tied him to the trailer’s side. The crowd didn’t notice us yet, too busy with their beach bags and arguments over parking. Good.
I worked fast, grabbing the saddle and blanket from the trailer’s tack compartment. My hands moved on muscle memory—checking the cinch, smoothing the blanket, settling the saddle just right. Flapjack stood patient, his bulk a quiet kind of reassurance. He didn’t care about the chaos around us. He just wanted the open.
“Hey, mister, what’re you doing with a horse?”
The voice was small but sharp, cutting through the hum of the lot. I turned, saddle strap still in hand, and found a kid staring up at me. Maybe seven, bright blue eyes, face splotched with sunscreen like he’d been finger-painted. He clutched a bucket of plastic army men, the kind I used to play with when I was his age, back when the world felt simpler.
I straightened, which only made me loom larger. At well over six feet and built like I’d been forged for breaking things, I was used to people staring. The kid didn’t flinch, though. Just tilted his head, curious.
“Just got here,” I said, voice low, steady. “Long drive. Flapjack needs to stretch his legs.”
“Flapjack?” The kid’s nose scrunched, like he’d tasted something sour. “What’s a flapjack?”
“Pancake,” I said, tightening the cinch. “Thick, buttery, stacked high with syrup. Best breakfast you’ll ever eat.”
He grinned, showing a gap where a front tooth should’ve been. “I like pizza better. With extra pepperoni.”
“Good choice.” I gave Flapjack a pat, his coat warm under my palm. “Can’t go wrong with pepperoni.”
“Why’re you so big?” the kid asked, blunt as only kids can be.
I chuckled. “Born this way. Same as Flapjack here. We’re just built for heavy lifting.”
“Can I pet him?” The kid’s eyes lit up, bucket swinging in his hand.
I glanced around, scanning the lot for whoever was supposed to be watching him. No obvious parents nearby, just the usual chaos of beachgoers.
“Run and ask your mom or dad first. If they say it’s okay, sure.”
He bolted, little legs kicking up sand, bucket rattling. I turned back to Flapjack, double-checking the bridle, making sure every strap was snug. I’d been saddling horses since I was younger than that kid, back when my family’s ranch was the only place that felt like home.
Flapjack snorted, tossing his head like he was laughing at me for fussing. I gave him a look. “Don’t start.”
The kid came sprinting back, a woman trailing behind him, a baby propped on her hip. She was in her thirties, maybe, with tired eyes and a beach bag slung over one shoulder. Her gaze flicked from Flapjack to me, and her eyebrows shot up, like she’d expected her son to be spinning stories.
“Mom, his name’s Flapjack!” the kid shouted, bouncing on his toes. “He said I could pet him if you say it’s okay!”
The woman’s eyes lingered on me, not quite suspicious but close. I stepped forward, keeping my movements slow, deliberate.
“Ethan Dane,” I said, offering a nod. “Flapjack’s tame as they come. Gentle as a lamb unless he smells cotton candy.”
The kid’s eyes went wide as saucers. “He eatscotton candy?”
I let a grin tug at my mouth. “Not a lot. But when he’s lucky, yeah.”
The woman’s lips twitched, like she was fighting a smile. She adjusted the baby, who was gnawing on a teething ring, and gave a small nod. “All right. Just … be careful.”
I led the kid to Flapjack, who knew the drill. He lowered his massive head, nostrils flaring softly, and instead of just a pet, the kid threw his arms around Flapjack’s muzzle, hugging tight. I froze, ready to step in, but Flapjack just stood there, calm as a summer lake. The kid stroked his face, gentle as anything, then leaned in and whispered something in Flapjack’s ear. I couldn’t catch the words, but Flapjack nickered, a low, warm sound, and the kid squealed, pure joy.
