Chapter 3 - The Paddock Secret
The morning sun broke through the coastal fog, casting long, sharp shadows across the Hargrove stables. The air was crisp, smelling of wet hay, leather saddle soap, and the sharp, earthy tang of horse manure.
Mary stood by the wooden fence, her tiny fingers clutching the sleeve of Holly’s coat. The little girl wore a miniature riding jacket and polished leather boots, but her shoulders were hunched, her small face pale and pinched. Inside the round pen, Midnight stood quietly, his head lowered, watching them with dark, intelligent eyes.
"He's too big," Mary whispered, her voice so faint Holly had to lean down to catch the words. "He looks like a monster."
"He's not a monster, sweetheart," Holly said gently, kneeling down to be at eye level with the child. She reached out and brushed a stray lock of blonde hair behind Mary's ear. "He's just carrying a lot of heavy feelings. Sometimes, when animals—and people—get hurt, they act tough on the outside because they're terrified someone is going to hurt them again."
Mary blinked, her wide, gray eyes—so identical to Weston's it was startling—locking onto Holly's face. "Did he lose his mommy too?"
The question hit Holly in the chest like a physical blow. She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. She thought of the cold hospital room in Tacoma, the smell of rubbing alcohol, and the way her mother’s hand had felt like dry parchment before it went completely still.
"Yes, baby," Holly whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "He did. But he's learning that it's okay to let people in again."
A few yards away, leaning against the rail of the main stable block, Weston watched them. He hadn't planned on coming down to the stables this early, but his feet had brought him here before his mind could object. Tristan stood beside him, holding a tablet with security updates.
"The background check hit a dead end in Tacoma," Tristan muttered, keeping his voice low. "Records from the Whispering Pines ranch were burned in an arson fire three years ago. Convenient, right?"
"Arson?" Weston asked.
"Officially ruled an electrical fault," Tristan said, smirking. "Unofficially? The ranch owner owed two hundred thousand to a loan shark tied to the Marcone family. The whole place went up in smoke. Holly lost her job, her home, and every reference she had in the state."
Weston's eyes shifted back to Holly. She was standing by the fence now, guiding Mary's small hand forward until her fingertips brushed Midnight's velvet muzzle. The massive stallion didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a long, shuddering sigh, his warm breath fogging in the morning air against the little girl's palm.
Mary let out a tiny, breathless gasp that sounded almost like a laugh.
Weston felt a strange, unfamiliar ache behind his ribs—a tight, painful constriction he hadn't felt since the day they buried his wife.
"Tristan," Weston said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Find out who burned that ranch down."
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Tristan paused, looking sideways at his brother. "Why? You think Holly was involved?"
"No," Weston said, his voice dropping an octave as he watched Holly smile down at his daughter. "I think whoever burned it is looking for her. And I want to find them before they find my front door."
