Lilac's Chance

Chapter Three

The little room is competely abandoned when I wake up. The dog is gone, the fire is dead. Sunlight streams through the window, lighting the interior in a festive yellow, so I cast off the blanket and leave the couch, searching for my shoes.

My boots are under the coffee table, and next to them a folded up jacket. It's much too big, and when I put it on I catch a whiff of that smell that just seems to accompany boy. It might be Braydon's. I hope it's not Hank's.

Hands burrowed deep in the warm denim pockets, I venture outside, finding a lovely little farm waiting on the doorstep.

To my left is a barn. It's story-book cute, like one of those red stables, but brown instead. Unpainted. The path between the doorstep I stand on and the entrance to the barn is little more than just dirt stamped into place, but the sleek heads that hang over the windows facing outside look well-groomed. All wear leather halters that look equally shiny and cared for. Classy.

To my right are the pastures. They're massive, nearly the size of Piperson's, with a grove of trees towards the back of them, and a few lanky yearlings graze the perimeter. Even as I watch, one lifts it's head and whinnies a high-pitched baby neigh, tail shooting upwards as it bounds towards the gate, where I see Braydon walking with a halter.

Something must make him look up- the little house is on a hill- because he shades his eyes with a hand and turns slightly to face me. I wave uncertainly, but his face is unreadable with distance and he doesn't wave back.

Jerk.

Well, I decide, I might as well go check out the barn. There's worse places I could've crashed, I think as I start down the path. It's a gorgeous day. There's not a cloud in sight, except for my icy breaths, and the sky is a pale blue, lighter than even Ned's eyes, which are the same shade as the Irish sky he had returned to a few months ago. I miss him, but then I burrow my hands even further into my- Braydon's- pockets and scold myself. There are more important things to be concerned about right now.

Horses nicker as I enter the barn. It's absolutely drop dead gorgeous in the most understated of ways- brass halter hooks and name tags, clean shavings in every stall, a wheelbarrow and pitchfork leaned against a door labeled "tack". Across from it is the feed room, I can tell from the grain bags I glimpse through the open door. The floor is plain cement with rubber mats, though it is cleanswept.

There's nobody in sight- not Braydon nor Hank- so I cross over to say hello to an especially friendly horse. Her head is thick and coarse, wider than any of my Thoroughbreds, and she's much, much shorter than the horses I'm used to. I run my eyes critically over her jet-black body, taking in her conformation. She's well-built but stocky, with a good length to her cannon bone and a short, well-coupled back. Everything about her build speaks of a good runner over short distances, something quick and agile.

"You must be a Quarter Horse," I decide, and I must be right because she nickers in agreement and nuzzles my arm. Nighttime Secrets, her nameplate reads. 

Mesmerized, I drift past her stall and towards the next. A chocolate bay, also a Quarter Horse, also sweet, pricks his ears hopefully at me. I spread my hands to show their emptiness. "No treats, buddy. Sorry."

And then I have to laugh, because his name is Buddy Boy.

Sweet Sensations. Megatona. Lucid Dreams. Readyaimfire. Afternoon Meet. Mywayhighway. Last Chance.

I stop.

Last Chance is easily the biggest horse in the barn. She's at least sixteen-two, with a deep chest and perfectly straight legs. Her eyes are a light chocolate brown, and they peer up at me from a gorgeous golden face as she nibbles innocently at my jacket cuffs. She's a palomino, with a creamy mane as blonde as my own hair, and everything about her is designed for speed. Nothing like the stout Quarter Horses I'd expected in the middle of Texas.