All the King's Horses Read Free

above the mirror. The heavy ball of lead that had taken up residence in my stomach sank a little deeper, and I let my gaze flick back and forth from the ring to the mark on my face.
    One would go away on its own. The other, only when I took the initiative and took the damn thing off. And left it off this time.
    Sighing, I let the ring drop onto my chest, wondering how a band that thin could be so heavy. One of these days, I’d take it off. Maybe even get rid of it.
    But tonight, I just… I couldn’t. Not now. It was too soon.
    Too soon? I should have taken this thing off years ago.
    Maybe so, but I had my limits. Skipping town and blowing off Sam’s funeral pushed those limits, but taking off the ring? I wasn’t ready for that yet.
    I closed my hand around the ring, the metal cool against my skin and the guilt hot in my otherwise numb chest. Closing my eyes, I could still hear the rumble of his motorcycle fading into the distance. I could still taste the venomous whispered prayer that it would be the last time I heard that sound, that he really wasn’t coming back this time.
    Guess you should be careful what you wish for.
     
     
    John met me outside the next morning to show me around, and my God, was I in a different world. King’s Ranch was the polar opposite of Dover Equestrian. It was like being on another planet, and not just because Eastern and Western Washington may as well have been Mars and Earth. It was dustier out here, with areas of sparse desert-like areas interspersed with the grassy pastures and huddled clusters of trees, as opposed to the blanket of evergreens and lush fields that covered the western side of the state.
    At Sam’s insistence, our facility was far more immaculate and coordinated than any working horse facility could realistically be for more than ten minutes. He wouldn’t even tolerate the natural wear and tear on cross-ties, rubber floor mats and the white-painted walls. Two of our five full-time employees did nothing but keep up on his never-ending “fix, paint, dust, replace” list.
    If he’d ever set foot on this property, Sam would have been horrified. The barn wasn’t flawlessly painted and kept, but it sure wasn’t what I would have called rundown. It showed its age in a few places—faded paint, some uneven spots in the packed-dirt aisle, a few chewed doors that didn’t quite hang straight on their rails—but what building full of half-ton termites didn’t have a few teeth marks? Well, besides one where a co-owner went crazy whenever anything showed the slightest disrepair. Heaven forbid a barn look lived-in.
    Just walking through this place, where horses had kicked and gnawed here and there, I couldn’t help feeling more weight sliding off my shoulders. Like it was finally settling in that I didn’t have to ride on eggshells anymore.
    John continued showing me around. The indoor arena was attached to the side of the barn by a short aisle. It was a nice-size arena with excellent footing, but there wasn’t a jump in sight and certainly no letters on the arena walls for practicing dressage tests. From what I’d gathered in the thirty seconds I’d spent reading up on this place before jumping on the available job, Dustin King mostly bred, raised and trained stock horses. Some for competition—both western pleasure and working western—and some for use on ranches. He probably had as much use for jumps and dressage letters as I did for chaps and cattle chutes.
    The sliding door at the end of the barn groaned as John pushed it open. Fences extended as far as the eye could see over rolling hills, and there was an outdoor arena and round pen not far from the barn, but immediately outside the rear door was a smaller pasture with a single horse in it. The boards and posts were dark brown, almost black, and gave off that familiar more-bitter-than-sweet odor of creosote.
    John led me to the pasture and rested his elbow on the fence. Beaming at the horse on the other side, he