Page 8 of Knot what I want for Christmas
“Sorry, Hollie. I just thought that was the kind of thing you omegas did.”
Annie grew up with an elder brother who (according to her) presented as an alpha in his early teens. She lived with me – an omega – all the way through college and grad school. Yet, she continues to play ignorant when it comes to alpha and omega dynamics.
“Annie,” I say, “you’ve known me ten whole years. Since when have I gone round sniffing men’s sheets?”
“There’s always a first time for everything,” she says. I stick my tongue out at her. She sticks hers right back out at me. “Want to go and see the animals now?”
Which is most definitely her attempt at a peace offering, because Annie knows I love animals. I’ve been obsessed with them ever since I was a little girl. It’s the reason I’m vegetarian. It’s the reason I spent nearly all of my twenties training to be a vet. Unfortunately, I grew up with a mom who was highly allergic to every animal on the planet. So I never had any pets at home other than the one stick insect that died after two weeks. I guess I could have got a pet once I’d moved out, but there aren’t a lot of landlords in Rockview who are particularly happy accepting an omega in the first place. I guess they don’t like the idea of our scents sinking into the walls or our slick ruining the furnishings. There definitely aren’t many landlords willing to accept an omega with pets in toe as well. That’s why I have Ted, the goldfish, and rely on the clinic for my daily-dose of animal snuggles.
“You mean the horses?” I ask Annie.
“I mean the horses,” she replies.
Out of all the animals in the universe, I love horses the most. It all started with aMy Little Ponycraze when I was in kindergarten, then morphed to an obsession withThe Pony Clubbooks as a tweenie, and it hasn’t really stopped since then. I love horses, even if I rarely get the chance to ride them.
“Come on then,” Annie says, taking my hand and pulling me down the stairs and back out into the snow. It really is brutally cold out here in Colorado. It hits you like a wall of ice, like stepping into a freezer. I tug up the collar of my jacket and follow Annie across the yard toward the big barn. I instantly realize that sneakers were a poor choice for vacation footwear, because, almost immediately, the cold snow is sinking into the leather and my feet are already wet. However, nothing – not even frozen toes and losing limbs to frostbite – is going to distract me from what’s about to happen.
Annie leads me inside the barn, and I think I am in horse heaven.
“Oh my goodness,” I say. “They’re all so beautiful.” There are six horses, each occupying a stall of their own. Three are a dark chestnut color, their coats shiny. Two are mottled white, brown, and black. And the final could easily be Black Beauty himself – he’s the color of night, and his coat is so sleek I think I could almost see my face reflected back in it.
“Let me introduce you to them,” Annie says. “This is Bonnie,” she says, pointing to the first chestnut. “And this is Clyde,” she says, pointing to the next. “And then this is Sugar, because she has the sweetest nature of any horse you could meet.”
I say hi to each of the three horses, giving them an obligatory little scratch on the nose.
“Then this is Cloud,” she says, pointing to the more white of the horses. “And this – this is Dust,” she says, pointing to the other.
I stroke them both too.
“And then finally, last but not least, is Jet.”
I think I fall in love with Jet almost immediately. Not only is he, frankly, the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen in my life, he also nudges his nose against my hand and demands my attention.
“So,” I say, “who belongs to who?”
“Sugar is mine,” Annie says. “Bonnie and Clyde are Mom and Dad’s.”
“And let me guess,” I say, “Jet belongs to Clay?” That man was designed to ride a black horse.
“Yeah,” she says. “Correct.”
I spend the next ten minutes reveling in horse heaven, feeding each of the horses some treats and stroking and petting them. By now my feet are well and truly solid blocks of ice, and we’re just about to leave and make our way back to the house when the barn door swings open and who I think must be the cowboy we saw out in the field earlier walks through leading a gray horse. Except it’s not the cowboy from earlier. It’s a different one. The cowboy out in the field looked like something straight out of a John Wayne movie – Levi jeans, spurs on his boots and a wide-brimmed hat. This cowboy wears a pair of glasses – all steamed up as he steps through into the warmth of the barn, a button down jacket and cord pants. A mop of thick hay-colored hair flops into his chestnut eyes as he slides off his glasses and wipes the lenses on his sleeves.
“Hey, Nash,” Annie says.
The man stops in his tracks and blinks at the two of us. “Uh, hi,” he says, managing a shy smile.
“This is my best friend, Hollie.”
He nods, sliding his glasses back into place, and looping the reins of the horse around the nearest post. He strides toward me and holds out his hand. His scent hits me almost immediately. He smells of bookshops. It’s so surprising I almost gasp. I’ve always loved the smell of books, especially a new one – it’s the second best present someone could gift me after a bunny, a dog or a cat – and I can’t help but wonder what it can mean.
“Nash,” he says, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Hollie.”
I shake his hand. It’s large, his grip strong and his fingers calloused.
“This is Clay’s other packmate,” Annie explains.
“Hi,” I manage to squeak back at the man who’s examining me through his glasses.
