Silent Heart by Amy Lane

Author:Amy Lane [Lane, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay romance
ISBN: 978-1-64405-813-8
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2019-09-18T16:00:00+00:00

THE next few hours were actually restful. Once they hooked the trailer up behind the truck, the bulk served as sort of a wind block. The terrain was flat until it hit the mountains and, unless there was irrigation and farmland, dry and scorched. Damien gave Preston his duffel, Preston pulled out his baseball cap, and he copped a nap on top of the bedroll and the horse blankets in the back of the truck. When they got to the trail at the base of the mountains, he and Preacher were more than ready for some physical activity.

Buddy parked in a turnabout before the trail narrowed to a four-foot axle-breaker that wound between trees and rocks. Damien took charge of the horses, belting the saddlebags and the travois on the pack animal, making sure the straps on the riding pads were not too tight, but not too loose. Buddy’s saddles were soft and worn—but with more structure than a bareback pad alone. Damien and Preston both wore hiking boots, which, while not ideal, at least had reinforced steel toes in case the damned horse (Buddy’s appellation) decided to dance on their feet.

The packhorse’s travois had small all-terrain rubber wheels, but it extended a ways beyond her back end, so Preston heeded the reinforced requirement that she had to bring up the rear.

“Who are our horses?” Preston asked as Damien inspected the horses’ hooves, using a small hoof pick that he’d pulled from a kit Buddy had given him to pull out any matter in the frog of the foot.

“This one’s Chewie,” Damien said, solidly patting the exceptionally large horse he was inspecting on the hindquarters. “He’s a gelding and a moose, but Buddy here says he’s exceptionally docile and follows SnakeEyes over there with a slavish devotion. SnakeEyes is mine, and she’s apparently a real bitch.”

“She has her moments,” Buddy conceded, giving the packhorse its own inspection. “But you know what you’re doing. I wouldn’t trust her with someone inexperienced, and she’s got good trail legs. If you were riding her alone, you could do this fifty-mile bit in a couple of hours, a week running, provided she has some rest and some good grub when she’s done.”

“Who’s that?” Preston asked, nodding at the swaybacked mare who was carrying the supplies Glen had demanded.

“That’s Sunshine,” Buddy said, patting the mare’s neck. “She’s the sweetest little filly I’ve ever raised. Built like a house of sticks and uncomfortable as hell to ride, but mostly she’s like a really big dog. You give her the right cues, you tell her where she’s going, and she’ll do it all for you and expect nothing but an attagirl.” Buddy reached into his pocket and pulled out a green cake of alfalfa, then broke a piece of it off for her. She lipped it and nuzzled his shoulder, and he gave the horse a completely unselfconscious kiss on her velvety nose. “Attagirl,” he mumbled.

Preston smiled. He and Sunshine could be friends.

“Here,” Buddy told him, pulling a fanny pack from around his waist.

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