The Grump Whisperer (Morningsong Farm #1)

Four

I an turned another page in his book, then flipped it back, realizing that yet again he’d failed to absorb the words in front of him. After repeating the same process two more times, he tossed the book to the bare floor with a satisfying thud.

There had been a time when he’d been able to read anywhere—in bed, in the car on the way to a show, in the back of a horse trailer between classes. His focus had been legendary, on or off a horse. He’d had everything together: mentally, physically, in every way that mattered.

There had also been a brief time when he hadn’t been able to read at all. In the hospital there had been too many distractions, but also the injuries. Not only to his hip and back, but to his head. His head, the source of that focus, his ability to laser in on the questions asked by any challenging show-jumping course and answer them systematically from the back of his mount of the day. Elegantly, even.

Now he couldn’t read one damn chapter of one of his favorite novels without getting distracted. He knew there were many reasons for his lack of focus, but the one that worried him the most was the fact that it might be physical. And that while the doctors had all said he would heal, healing didn’t always mean that you went back to exactly the way you were before.

He peeked out the window of his bedroom again, and was pleased to see the results of his rather high-handed demands of the local arena footing supplier in the distance. If he was going to do a job, he’d do it right. They’d suggested sticking with dirt or using sand, but Ian knew all too well the toll taken on a horse’s legs over the years, and it wasn’t in him to allow anything but the best.

Even if his savings account wouldn’t thank him. Anne had better be good for a repayment, or he’d have to find another job sooner than he’d hoped.

With a weary sigh, he wandered down to the kitchen and stared into the refrigerator. Leftover delivery from last night and half a bagel were about all he had, other than the ridiculous cake that sat on the counter by the window. He didn’t even want cake—he wasn’t much of a sweets person, but as a kid he’d always distracted Anne from whatever had been going on in their home life by baking complicated dessert recipes. Now he was a confirmed stress baker.

The German chocolate cake with buttercream frosting and a dark chocolate drip had turned out perfectly, for what it was worth. Which wasn’t much. He wasn’t going to eat it, and he didn’t have a crew of grooms, owners and fellow riders to share it with. Not anymore.

Some days the empty silence of the farmhouse was a cocoon, a safe landing place. A refuge from the chaos of his life, from a future that was wholly unknown and unimaginable. He was grateful then, to his sister. To her ex-husband, or at least his money. To the cold Boston spring that provided the perfect excuse to remain inside, tucked away where no one could ask him how he was doing, or what he would do next. He’d come all the way from Florida for just this refuge.

But other days, like today, the silence pressed in on him like the air had been sucked right out of the room. The dark corners crept in on the light that struggled to find its way through the dirty old windows, and he’d find himself with his palms against the glass as if he could draw the light inside through force of will. Keep the shadows at bay with his own hands.

He wanted to be rid of the responsibility of Anne’s farm, even if he could admit that sorting out all of Bronwen’s issues had at least given his brain something to do instead of spinning in useless circles. Even if the thought of Bronwen bravely facing him in her horse pajamas, shovel in hand, brought a grudging smile to his face every time he remembered that moment. A flash of light and fresh air when the walls were closing in. But when his sister arrived, what would he do? He had no plans, nowhere to go. He’d be welcome to stay, but he didn’t want to live in such close proximity to anyone. Especially Anne, who knew and saw far too much.

He knew in a deep, fundamental way that he needed this time to regroup, to lick his wounds in private. Whether he would ever be ready to emerge from the bottomless mental hole he found himself in, that was still a mystery. He sure as hell wasn’t ever going back to his old life, or anything like it. He didn’t want anything to do with horses, or riding, or the people in that world. Ever again.

Which made his sister’s machinations just that much more infuriating. She thought he just needed a little push and everything would go back to the way it was. But he knew she understood just how much he’d lost, and how much he never, ever wanted the least bit to do with anything that reminded him of it.

A knock on the front door startled him, and he clutched at the kitchen counter. He swallowed, waiting. It couldn’t be Bronwen again—he’d done everything she’d demanded, and she didn’t seem like the sort to go back on her promise to stay out of his way.

He admired the barn manager, even as he resented her interference. And the way she made him feel. He wasn’t ready to feel anything, and the one thing he’d done that morning in the feed room was feel . The attraction to her had come out of nowhere, knocking him off his precarious axis and overwhelming his already strung-out system.

The knock became a pounding, as if the person outside had no plans to leave until he answered.

Reluctantly, he walked to the door.

“Mr. Kingston? Ian Kingston?” the young man on the front porch asked breathlessly, as if he wanted to get the words out before Ian slammed the door in his face.

Which he was tempted to do, actually. He didn’t know this man, and had no reason to find out why he was there.

But then he saw the horse trailer. Shiny, complete with the logo of a breeding farm he recognized. The owners of that farm had regularly brought young horses down to Florida for the show season before they were put up for sale. Ian had ridden several of them. Top quality, across the board.

Cold slithered down his spine at the reminder of his past life. He took a step backward out of instinct, but the young man leaned against the door frame before Ian could shut the door.

He held out an envelope.

“This is for you,” he said quickly, pressing the paper into Ian’s hand.

Ian held up the envelope and stared blankly at it. Only his name was scrawled on the outside, in handwriting he didn’t recognize. Slowly, because he didn’t see that he had any other choice, and because this young man was simply doing his job, he opened it.

Ian—

Sorry for the telephone-game-style letter. I dictated it to the person at Clover Farm who arranged this. When you get this, I’ll still be out of the country and inaccessible, which is probably for the best since I’m sure you’ll be ready to cut my head off. You know Clover only buys the best horses. Well, they’re in a bit of a jam, having bought this young stallion for breeding purposes, planning to compete him as usual to establish him before putting him up for stud. But as you can tell, none of that is happening. I suggested you might be able to help, and it turns out that not only do they want help, they want to be rid of him completely. They just don’t have time to work with him. So I bought him at a bargain-basement price, and now I’m sending him your way. I know you’ll know what to do.

Please don’t kill me! You know how I feel about the waste of a good breeding horse. He deserves a chance.

Love,

Anne

PS. His name is Hades.

“What the fuck,” Ian muttered.

Anne had really gone through it in her life, her marriage and her divorce. And for the first time Ian wondered if maybe it all might have been too much for her. The note made no sense at all. Sure, Anne had , in fact, always been much more interested in breeding than competition. The baby horses held her interest most. And secondarily, horses who’d been mistreated and developed behavioral issues also held a place in her soft heart.

But she couldn’t possibly mean—

“Should I try to get him out?” the man asked nervously.

And Ian realized that this young man wasn’t just worried that Ian would shut the door in his face. Probably had been hoping for just that, if Ian’s suspicions were correct, so he could turn the trailer around and go back to Clover Farm with no further involvement with the horse inside. It wasn’t a good sign if someone who worked at the farm the horse had come from was afraid to handle him.

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m assuming that when my sister said his name was Hades, she was referring to whatever is in that trailer, and not you?”

The man cleared his throat. “Uh...yeah. My name’s John.” He grimaced. “Hades is an appropriate name, if you ask me.”

Ian nodded. “Right. And while I’m guessing you’d rather do anything other than deal with...Hades, my sister provided a bonus for you if you convince me to take him?”

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Kingston. I’m a huge fan of yours—saw you win at Aachen that year.”

It had been more than just one year, but that didn’t matter now. He couldn’t turn away a young groom who’d been offered money that could make all the difference to him. He knew how little they were paid. And Ian was sure that whatever Anne was offering was more than what he had on hand, especially after everything he’d done at the farm.

And now there was a horse.

“It’s fine,” he said tightly. He’d figure something out. He couldn’t stick a stallion who was difficult enough to make a professional groom as wary of him as this one clearly was in a boarding barn and expect to remain hands-off.

And Anne had known that. He was absolutely going to murder his sister whenever she reemerged.

He walked over to the back of the trailer, outwardly calm but with his heart, lungs and stomach all lodged in his throat. Ian hadn’t handled a horse since his accident, and he’d planned never to do so again.

“Here, let me get the door for you,” John said. He lowered the ramp to the ground, unlatched the door and swung it open. Ian took a quick step back as a hoof went flying, banging sharply on the side of the trailer.

“Not exactly an auspicious beginning,” Ian muttered.

He considered his options. Either the horse was flat-out mean, or he’d been ruined by someone’s mistreatment. And he’d known very, very few horses who were naturally hostile. Nervous, sure. Aggressive, occasionally. Difficult, fairly often. But far more common was that some human wanted to dominate a sensitive animal, and the result was a whole hornet’s nest of behavioral issues that a future owner had to figure out. Or, more frequently, the horse was written off as a problem, and subjected to increasingly harsh treatment.

Ian had written off horses generally—they were incredible animals, but his accident had shut the door on any desire to make them the focus of his life again. But like his sister, he couldn’t stand to see an animal punished for the stupidity and cruelty of the people responsible for him. He had to get this horse off the trailer. He wasn’t in a position to offer much to the world, but he could offer this one horse the same sanctuary that he’d found on this farm.

He could do that much.

“I’ve got a dressage whip in the front,” John offered. “I could hold it against his hindquarters while you run in and get his lead.”

Ian considered it. “No. No whips.” Depending on what had been done to this horse, just the touch of a whip could be a spark to a powder keg.

He stared at what he could see of the horse, who was standing headfirst inside the trailer. He was enormous—easily seventeen hands, if not more. Black as ink, no white markings to be seen. The marks on the back leg that had shot out at him when he opened the trailer confirmed he was probably right about the whip.

Anger at whoever had mistreated this horse flooded through his body like he’d swallowed too-hot coffee. He wouldn’t mind using that whip on whoever had put those marks there, who had harmed a horse in their care. There was a special place in hell reserved for people who abused animals. His spine stiffened in determination.

“Let’s see how this goes,” he said. He unlatched the bar behind the horse’s butt and held out his hand for a lead rope.

He slipped into the trailer on the opposite side of the middle divider from where Hades stood. How many hours had he spent in a horse trailer? Loading and unloading his rides, making sure that everything was just so: horse, hay, equipment. Hanging out in an empty trailer at a show, a horse tied to the outside or in the show barn, finding a quiet moment to himself. It was as natural as breathing to slide next to the giant horse’s head.

Less natural was the way Hades immediately reared up a few inches, kicking out with the front leg closest to Ian and then snaking his head around to snap with his large teeth. Ian backed quickly up against the far side of the trailer and then held completely still, murmuring reassuring nonsense that did nothing to calm the wild, dark eyes, whites on display, foam dripping from the horse’s mouth.

The animal was terrified. And Ian was stuck.

“Uh...you all right in there?” John asked.

“Yes, everything’s going perfectly,” Ian snapped, and then guilt pricked at his conscience. It wasn’t the other man’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault except whoever had done this to Hades.

And maybe his sister.

“Okay, big guy,” he said quietly to the horse, who eyed him with a desperate fury Ian could certainly identify with. “What if I came just a little bit closer and put this lead on you?”

He slowly reached his hand toward Hades’s head, managing to unsnap the lead that was tied to the front of the trailer. Another back hoof went flying, probably denting the trailer. And his enormous head—now untethered—turned toward Ian, who was now in range of the horse’s impressive teeth.

“Shit.”

Ian made his escape, quickly reversing himself out the back of the trailer and stumbling on the gravel of the driveway. His hip creaked in protest.

“Oh my God,” John said in a horrified voice, snapping the butt bar behind Hades again. “That horse is the devil. I’ll take him back to the farm—we’ll never get him out of there. And no bonus is worth this,” he added under his breath.

“Wait.” Ian held up a hand.

He glanced down the slight hill toward the barn.

“Horses have good memories,” he said. “At Clover, is there anyone who can handle him?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Maggie, the assistant manager, can. She’s about this height—” He held his hand at about an average height. “Young. You think Hades remembers who abused him?”

Ian narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Of course. Do you know who owned him before?”

John thought for a moment. “He got to Clover about a month ago. I was there when he arrived. The man who brought him backed the trailer up to the field and unloaded him that way. Said it was best to let him back out himself.”

“Not a red flag or anything,” Ian murmured. “What did he look like?”

“Tall, athletic.” He looked Ian up and down. “About your height.”

“Great.” Ian sighed. “And Clover was more interested in his breeding and conformation than whether they could handle him.”

John shrugged. “We’ve never ended up with one like this before. Probably thought a horse this well-bred would be well trained, too.”

Foolish. Any horse could be abused, no matter how well they were bred or how much they cost.

“And this...Maggie? What color hair does she have?”

“Oh, plain brown. Long.”

Ian smiled for the first time in what felt like forever. “Perfect.”

“Um...hi?” A familiar woman’s voice came from behind him. “What’s going on up here? I heard a bang.”

“That would be Hades in there,” John said, pointing at the back of the trailer. “Can’t get him out.”

Bronwen stared at the trailer, then turned her gaze on Ian. Green eyes met his and he tried to ignore the zap of awareness that shot through his system like static electricity. He didn’t have time for that right now. Or ever.

“There’s a horse in there?” Her eyes widened. “Named... Hades ?”

“Pretty appropriate name, too,” John said.

“That’s...unfortunate. So—you do know something about horses?” she asked Ian.

John burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”

“All right, that’s enough chitchat.” Ian cut them off before John could say too much. “Here’s what’s going to happen. John, you’re going to back the trailer down to that field away from the barn. Bronwen, is that field used for regular turnout right now?”

She shook her head. “No, we leave it empty for new arrivals, and riding for people who want some hills in a fenced area. There’s a big shed in the far corner, too.”

“Great.” He loved when a plan came together. When he could solve a problem set before him. “Back the trailer up to the open gate. Bronwen, you’re going to lead him out and turn him loose.”

“He’ll back himself if you poke him with the whip,” John suggested.

“You mean explode out of the trailer in fear,” Ian bit out. “We’re not doing that to him. And horses need to be handled. I want to see if he’ll let Bronwen touch him. If not, we’ll...figure something out.”

“Your funeral,” John said softly, with a glance in Bronwen’s direction.

“What?” She turned to look at the groom.

“Uh...nothing,” John said quickly.

Ian looked at Bronwen. Her ponytail was mussed by the brisk wind, cheeks pink and full lips red. Her slim frame was bundled up in a puffy coat, coveralls and work boots. She wasn’t short—average height, as John had indicated about the Clover farm groom—but she hardly looked strong enough to handle a half-wild stallion.

But Ian had been around horses long enough to know that strength only got you so far, and often didn’t get you anywhere at all. And he’d never underestimate someone in charge of a barn full of horses and their owners. Especially someone who had held the farm together in the absence of an owner, and who had advocated loudly and passionately on their behalf even when he’d tried to throw her out.

No, Bronwen could handle this. His only concern was for her safety. She was clearly a competent horsewoman, but he knew better than anyone just how unpredictable the animals could be.

One wrong move, one sudden movement, and you could end up in a hospital bed.

The thought of that fate befalling Bronwen sent a quick wave of nausea through his gut. Protective instinct told him to take John’s advice and let Hades burst out from the trailer at the touch of the whip. But he couldn’t do that to the horse. And he wouldn’t speak for or make any decision on Bronwen’s behalf. She was a grown woman, and she’d chosen horses as her profession. She could decide for herself.

He stepped closer to her, ignoring the way his body tightened in response to her nearness even with her layers of winter clothing between them.

“Can you do this?” he asked quietly. “Do you want to do this?”

She tilted her head, gaze darting to where Hades’s rump was barely visible in the shadows of the trailer. A strand of hair blew across her face, and Ian’s hands fisted so he wouldn’t reach out and brush it back.

“He was abused, wasn’t he?” Her eyes met his again. “Someone abused him, and that’s why you can’t handle him. A man, probably. So you want me to see if he’ll let a woman touch him.”

Ian nodded, keeping his gaze on hers. “John said there’s a groom back at the farm he came from who can handle him, and her description sounds like you.”

Bronwen bit her lip, and Ian’s eyes followed the movement involuntarily. “And you’re going to keep him? Give him a good home?” She blew out a breath. “That’s kind of you.”

Ian laughed harshly. “It’s not kindness. I just don’t have much choice.”

He didn’t want Bronwen to get the wrong idea. He wasn’t softhearted like his sister. His heart was buried under so many layers of pain and bitterness it may as well be encased in stone. But while his sister had stuck him in this entire godforsaken situation, he wasn’t going to punish a horse for that. He had that much humanity left in him.

“Still...” She regarded him with perceptive eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to stalk back into the house, slam the door and lock himself inside its silence once again.

“So, what are we doing?” John asked, rubbing his hands together against the cold.

Bronwen pressed her lips together. “Bring the trailer down. Let’s see what we can do.”