I’d just arrived at Winterlight. Malcolm startled Cali as I unloaded her from the trailer, and she kicked him. NOT an auspicious start to things. A group of trail riders had returned shortly before, and one of the women thought it would be a good idea to bring her mount over to meet my horse. Really. Not. Good.
Pink camouflage lady led the palomino forward, cooing baby talk in the mare’s ear, and came straight up to us. “Wittle Fawny want to meet the big new guy—”
“Don’t—” Too late. The mare’s noses touched and both squealed. Wittle Fawny spun her fat ass into our faces and let loose with her signature double-barreled shot. Fortunately, she missed slamming Cali’s knees. Unfortunately, she caught me square in both thighs.
“Shit. Fuck. Piss,” I swore through clenched teeth.
I would have kicked both her and pink camouflage over the barn, but it was all I could do to suck in air.
“Get. Away,” I gritted out.
With a swirl of plaid skirt, Fawny walked off. I stood with my hands on my knees, eyes squeezed shut. The ringing in my ears prevented sounds from coming through and also, thankfully, coherent thought. I was no stranger to pain, knew the initial shock would wear off. The real pain would hit later, and the bruises, Jesus, I would be purple from crotch to knees. Good thing I didn’t plan to model bathing suits on the side.
Noire whimpered and licked my hand, and Cali nudged my head. They were my truest friends, these two critters. Clearly, people were not to be trusted.
Is it really any wonder I’m cranky?
Join me tomorrow for G is for Gross.
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