Change Rein (Willow Bay Stables #1)(4)

Farther down the road, there is a large outdoor riding ring, a lunging ring, and a series of turnout pastures for the horses. Behind those is the second barn. It houses only ten stalls and a feed room, and the upper floor is a hayloft. However, it too was designed to resemble its counterpart.

When I glance up at the house, I check my spine and find that it’s lacking the steel I need to face my family. I’ve been training abroad for nearly three years, rarely coming home—with the exception of Christmas—so something about my return seems as much cowardly as it does humiliating. After rolling through the excuses in my mind, I settle on the idea that it’s best I unload Achilles before advancing to the house.

After veering left, I put the truck in park outside the giant barn. I take a minute, glancing right and left, but I see no one. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t see much of anything. No horses. No people. Nothing. Which seems unusual, given that this is the barn usually boarded out to people and their horses. Taking advantage of the empty area, I slide out of the truck and make my way to the back of the trailer, where Achilles is moving around inside.

“Cool your jets, big guy,” I drop the tone of my voice, increasing the softness and coo through the panels.

My voice always changes when I talk to Chil.

After unlatching the hooks, I open the back of the trailer. The gentleman at the airport helped me load Achilles, and I forgot how heavy the gate is. When I reach past my waist, my lower back spasms. Reaching around to press against the screaming area causes me to lose my grip, and the gate crashes the remaining three feet onto the pavement. The sound of the gate echoes through the courtyard and out in the fields. Shit. Achilles neighs wildly as he stomps and shifts his weight nervously.

Certain that the sound scared him, I grip the side wall to steady myself before using it to haul my small frame inside the trailer to comfort him. “Easy, Chil,” I hum.

His ears twitch backwards at the tone of my voice. I touch him softly on his butt before moving my hand gently over his back towards his neck. His muscles ease under the recognition of my touch, and he swings his head to the left, straining to see my movements.

After pushing off the wall with my other hand, I hook my other hand under his neck and lean into him for support. “Sorry, big guy. Didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologize into his neck.

After unclipping the ropes from his halter, I attach the lead rope underneath his chin and rub his nose with the palm of my hand. We stand like that for a few minutes, his massive frame taking the weight of my smaller one until the pain in my back subsides. When I feel as though my strength has returned, I test it by pulling away from him and flattening my feet inside my cowboy boots.

No buckling.

No crying.

We’re good.

While pressing a finger into his front, I make a clucking sound with my tongue, and Achilles begins to back out of the trailer. He’s done this so many times that I’m certain he could nearly do it without any guidance from me. After looping the lead rope over his neck, I give him a quick kiss on the forehead and then walk towards one of the single-horse turnout pens. Achilles follows behind me despite the fact I’m in no way holding on to him.

The memory of Harlow’s voice the first time he caught me doing this rings in my ear. “You put too much trust in that horse, London. He’s still an animal.”

Upon reaching the gate, I slip Achilles’ halter over his massive head and cluck my tongue again. He takes off into the field, every bit the beautiful, raw power he is, and like every time, I’m mesmerized by the way he moves, elegant and graceful.

“Welcome home, Chil,” I say as he finally settles on a patch of grass to graze on.

“Still talking to horses, I see.”

Startled, I spin around on my heel, nearly falling flat on my face. His deep chuckle twists into the wind, and my lips purse together in annoyance.

“Jesus, Owen. You scared the shit out of me.” I snarl, wincing at the sting in my lower back.

My brother tosses his head back. This time, his laughter takes a stronger presence in the open area. “Nice to see you too, sis.” Then he smirks, folding his arms over his chest and nodding the tip of his black cowboy hat in my direction.

While I am the middle child, Owen is the oldest and, by far, the wildest. He’ll be thirty next year, and he’s one of Canada’s highest-ranked bareback bronc riders in the rodeo circuit. Towering over me, he leans his hip against the fence, and I marvel at how much he looks like our father. It’s uncanny, really, and for some reason, it makes my eyes water, and all thoughts of kicking him in the shins for scaring me fly out the window.

“Lord love a duck, London.” He huffs, hauling me into his arms.

Burying my face into his shirt, I let a single tear fall. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, Bridge.”

My shoulders shake with laughter at the sound of my old nickname.

After giving me a squeeze, he pulls me away from him and playfully pretends to knock my chin with his fists a few times. “There she is.”

Owen started calling me London Bridge when we were little kids, and eventually, he shortened it to Bridge. Even though it’s an odd nickname, it took off like wildfire in our family. I was always falling off horses when I was younger, mostly due to the fact I thought I could ride anything. I was utterly fearless, and thus, Owen loved to chant, “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” every time I took a tumble off a horse, which was often.