“Are we stopping for the horse trailer?” Matt asked from the passenger seat.
“We are. I’m being optimistic today.”
“Nice.”
She drove home, where they hooked the horse trailer to the farm truck. Matt drove the big pickup, and Bree followed in her official SUV because she needed to be prepared to respond to an emergency if necessary.
They parked in the dirt lot at the auction. The sun shone from a dazzling blue winter sky. Bree grabbed a halter and lead rope from the trailer and slung them over her shoulder.
Matt gave the ground a dubious glance. “Let’s be quick. If this mud thaws, the trailer is going to get stuck.”
Bree quickened her pace. They left the sunny parking area for the large auction barn. Inside felt colder than outside. They walked between rows of pens. Steam rose from animals’ backs. Some milled around, stamping nervous feet. Others stood with heads hanging. An occasional thin whinny pierced the freezing air.
“So many horses.” Matt stepped around a pile of manure. “I want to take them all home.”
“I know it.” Bree focused ahead, bypassing a corral containing seven mules and another full of yearlings. A gorgeous chestnut quarter horse caught her eye. But he shied away, his eyes wide and white-rimmed, as she approached him. She backed away. “I don’t need fancy. I need sound and sensible.”
Not only was Adam an occasional rider at best, but Bree didn’t have the skill or time to train a youngster properly. Plus, she had to consider Kayla, who ran through the barn and pasture like a wild child. A well-mannered, mature horse would fit into their lifestyle.
Ahead, a half dozen horses crowded together in the corner of a pen. Resting her elbows on the top wooden slat, she assessed the animals. “I like the looks of the Standardbred. Number three sixty-five.” She referred to the number on the horse’s hip sticker. Bree slipped into the pen and easily moved the Standardbred aside. His dark brown coat was shaggy and caked with mud. His gaze was soft as Bree slipped the halter over his head. He cooperated like a gentleman, lowering his head a few inches so she could easily fasten the buckle. She rubbed the crest of his neck, and he leaned into her touch.
Matt opened the gate, and she led the brown horse into the aisle. Four of the animals stood back, but a huge black draft horse crowded the gate, trying to squeeze his enormous body through before Matt closed the latch. Matt halted him with a hand on his nose. The draft horse pressed his chest against the slats. The boards groaned.
“Easy, big boy. Your pal will be back in a few.” Matt gave his big head a scratch.
While Matt held the lead rope, Bree examined the Standardbred gelding.
“I’m no expert, but he looks younger than I first thought.” She ran her hand along his side. Under the mud, his ribs protruded a bit more than they should have, but he wasn’t in terrible condition. “Some weight and a good grooming would help.”
“He’s quiet,” Matt said.
“He does have nice manners.” She felt along the horse’s spine. He didn’t react. She bent a knee and asked Matt to give her a leg up.
“Sure.” He lifted her by the shin and boosted her onto the horse’s back as if she weighed nothing.
Even in the busy stockyard barn with only a halter and lead rope, the brown horse trotted up and down the aisle, turning and stopping politely when asked. She didn’t detect a limp in his gait as she brought him back to Matt.
Bree slid to the ground. “Erin was the more experienced horsewoman. I wish she was here.” She rubbed at the sudden pressure behind her heart.
Most of the time, she felt as if she’d come to terms with her sister’s death, but grief still ambushed her at random moments, and she occasionally felt guilty, as if her own joy had come at the expense of her sister’s life. Her new life with the kids—with Matt—held a richness she hadn’t even known possible.
Matt rested a hand on her shoulder. His touch brought her back to the present. “Your sister would want you to be happy, and she’d be thrilled about what you’re doing today.”
“How do you always know what I’m thinking?”
“We’re in tune.” His smile sent warmth radiating through her.
“We are.” Feeling all sorts of content, she turned back to the horse.
“It’s nice that Adam wants to continue the family tradition of rescuing unwanted horses.”
“It’s all he wants for his birthday,” she said.
Her relationship with her brother had also deepened since she’d moved back to her hometown. They’d both made the effort, and they were becoming a family in more than just name.
She checked a sheet posted on the side of the pen. “Number three sixty-five, Amish buggy horse, broke to ride and drive. Seventeen years old. That’s all it says.” She slid the paper back into the hanging folder.
“I like him.”
“Me too,” Bree agreed. “Amish buggy horses have high mileage, but they’re accustomed to traffic and noise, so they’re generally easygoing. He seems sound.”
She ran her hands up and down the horse’s legs. He had some lumps and bumps, to be expected for a horse with a lot of blacktop under his hooves. She lifted his feet and examined his hooves. “Needs trimming but his feet are in decent shape.” After years of being a working beast, living on Bree’s farm and going on an occasional easy trail ride would be a nice retirement for this handsome boy.
“Are you going to bid on him?” Matt patted the horse’s neck. Dust billowed.
“I am.” Bree hated to put him back in the pen, but he went willingly. “It feels right.”
The draft horse nickered as the two horses greeted one another.
“What about his buddy?” Matt pointed to the draft horse.
Bree consulted the sheet again. “Percheron, also broke to ride and drive. Fourteen years old.”
“That’s a lot of horse.”
“Yes.” Bree forced herself to look away. She couldn’t rescue them all. But damn, his sad nicker renewed the ache in her chest—in the same place that housed her grief for Erin. What would she do with a draft horse? He was enormous, standing close to eighteen hands high.
“He has a gash on his rear leg,” Matt said.
Bree turned back and craned her head to assess the Percheron’s wound. Blood dripped above his hock. “That looks fresh. He was probably kicked.”
Matt’s voice went tight. “Lameness won’t improve his chances of scoring a decent home. He’ll probably get picked up by the kill buyer.”
Bree sighed. “Probably.”
“Can you ride a horse like that?”
“Definitely. Percherons were warhorses. They needed big, strong horses to carry knights and heavy armor.”
“If I were interested in a horse of my own, what kind would you recommend for me?” Matt asked, his eyes on the Percheron.
Bree shoved her cold hands into her jacket pockets and surveyed the pen. The Percheron was nudging the Standardbred with a giant nose. A true beast of burden, he had probably done the heavy moving on the farm. She would bet he’d pulled everything from plows to tree stumps.
She turned back to Matt. He was a big-boned six foot three. With his reddish-brown hair and trimmed beard, he often reminded Bree of a Hollywood Viking, but today maybe a medieval knight would make a better comparison. He was certainly capable of swinging a broadsword or battle-ax.