Page 5 of The Shield
“He understands me!”
“Course he does,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Horses always listen better than people.”
The kid jumped in the air, practically vibrating, then ran back to his mom. She ruffled his hair, glancing at me. “Say thank you, buddy.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ethan Dane!” the kid chirped, full name and all. Then, because he was a kid and kids don’t filter, he pointed at my left arm. “What happened to your arm?”
I held it out, the four long, jagged scars catching the light. Diagonal, deep, old but still angry-looking. The kid’s mom stiffened, her eyes flicking to mine, a silent plea not to scare him. I got the hint. No war stories. No blood.
“Maybe when you’re grown,” I said, keeping it light. “Long story for another day.”
The kid shrugged, like he was used to adults dodging, and tugged his mom’s hand. “C’mon, Mom, let’s go build the fort!” They headed off, the woman throwing me a quick, grateful nod over her shoulder.
I locked the truck and trailer, ignoring the stares from a few passersby who’d stopped to gawk at Flapjack. Big horse, big man, big scars—people always looked. I didn’t care.
I swung into the saddle, the leather creaking under my weight, and nudged Flapjack toward the beach. Away from the crowds, if that was even possible. The lot spilled into a stretch of sand packed with umbrellas, coolers, and screaming kids. Bad call, coming today. But I wasn’t here by choice. Some cryptic orders had landed me in Charleston for a meeting at a place called Dominion Hall, with a guy named Atlas. If that was even a real name. Sounded like a codename, or some rich asshole’s idea of a power move. Either way, I had a day to kill, and I wasn’t wasting it in a hotel room. Flapjack deserved the beach, and so did I.
We hit the sand, his hooves sinking deep, and I steered him toward the quieter end, where the dunes rose higher and the people thinned out.
Didn’t last long. A gaggle of kids started trailing us, keeping a respectful distance but whispering and pointing. I could feel their eyes, curious, a little awed. Flapjack didn’t mind, but I felt the old itch crawling up my spine—the one that hated being seen.
I nudged him into a trot, then a lope, his stride smooth and powerful, eating up the beach. The kids fell back, their parents calling them to safer distractions. Good.
The sun was brutal, beating down on my shoulders, sweat already beading under my t-shirt. Flapjack’s coat glistened, hisbreath steady but heavy. He loved this as much as I did—the rhythm, the motion, the way the world blurred when you moved fast enough. We were two of a kind, built for work, not crowds. I let him slow to a walk, patting his neck, his muscles warm and solid under my hand.
Then she stepped into my path.
A blonde, tall and athletic, tanned just enough to look like she belonged here but worked too hard to be a tourist. She held up both hands, a badge clipped to her belt, her expression all business. A knockout, sure, but the kind who didn’t care if you noticed. Behind her, a lanky guy with a clipboard glanced up, curious but staying out of it.
“You can’t have a horse on the beach,” she said, voice sharp, official, like she was reading from a rulebook.
I reined Flapjack to a stop, his hooves kicking up sand. “Didn’t know,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Thought this was a public beach.”
“It is,” she said, hands dropping to her hips. “For humans. Not horses.”
I grinned, couldn’t help it. “Don’t go anywhere without my best friend.” I patted Flapjack’s neck, and he nickered, right on cue, like he was backing me up.
Her frown deepened, but her eyes flicked over me, sizing me up. “You new in town?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, leaning forward in the saddle, just enough to make her notice my size again.
“What’s your deal?” she asked, head tilting. “You a cowboy or something?”
I let out a low chuckle. “Maybe in another life.”
Her eyes narrowed, catching on something. My chest. My dog tags had slipped out during the lope, dangling against my shirt. I tucked them back, quick, but not quick enough.
Her gaze sharpened. “What was that?”
“Dog tags,” I said, flat.
“No, the other thing.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Souvenir.”
“It looked like a claw,” she said, not letting it go.
My jaw tightened, just a fraction. She was pushing, and I didn’t like being pushed. But I kept it locked down, bottled tight, like always.
