Chapter 1

Brandon Reston noticed the red-shouldered hawk as he drove into the feed store that morning. It dive-bombed his truck in a flurry of wings and yellow talons, almost scraping the windshield. Brandon jerked back in the seat and slammed on the brakes. The bird zipped over to perch on the split rail fence that ran along the property line and kept his horses inside their ten acres of grazing land. It watched him with black eyes, turning its head left and right, then it focused on something in the tall grass beneath it.

Must have breakfast on the run. Maybe one of those big juicy rats who’ve been getting at my feed bags.

Once he unlocked the store, the hawk slipped Brandon's mind. The phone rang as soon as he turned on the lights and the Pro Feed tractor-trailer pulled in. Celeste had left a note on the cash register that she’d be in late because of a dentist appointment. The morning flew away in a rush of signing invoices, counting stock, and ringing up sales for the walk-in customers.

“Sorry I’m late!” Celeste said when she came in just after noon. “Emergency root canal.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to work?” Brandon asked. “Your face is kinda…puffy.”

“I’m fine. The Novocain is starting to wear off. And I’m on antibiotics for the infection.”

Brandon stepped closer. Celeste’s eyes were drawn tight and beneath her blush, her face was pale. “You should go home, sis. Take some pain meds, stay on your sofa and watch Oprah. Go on.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Brandon touched her shoulder. “The truck already came and I’ve got most of this inventory put away already. I can handle this. Go home.”

“Thanks, Brandon.” She gave him a wave as she pulled away in her beat-up SUV.

So much for taking a ride today.

He grabbed the phone—it was hooked to the security system and would buzz if someone walked into the store. Brandon snagged three apples from the mini-fridge in the store’s backroom. When he stepped out the back door, he regretted he didn’t have a saddle in hand. The February sky was clear and cool, a perfect Florida winter afternoon. A light haze lent a fuzzy wash to the landscape. His horses, Nit and Wit, grazed two hundred yards away, their outlines curved at neck and haunch. When he whistled, they raised their heads, then loped toward him with soft nickers of greeting.

“Heya, guys, how are ya?” Brandon petted Nit first. The gelding was adamant about being the first to greet him and he would nip his sister to get her out of the way. They took the apples from him with soft muzzles, teeth crunching. The odor of fresh apples and horse enveloped him, comforting and homey.

If only I had someone to ride with

Valentine’s Day had come and gone last week. It seemed the road was filled with flower delivery drivers that day. Brandon had seen four of them on his drive into the store. Stan had sent Celeste flowers at the store and they sat there on the front counter, nearly baleful in their cheery colors and soft scents. Even Brandon’s customers seemed to conspire against him; most wore red or pink for the holiday, mock-sighing about the hassle of the holiday, getting reservations for dinner, buying gifts.

I’d love to have someone to buy gifts for and I wouldn’t complain about it

It had been nearly two years since his father had died, leaving him the store, twenty acres, and a scruffy trailer on the outskirts of Tampa. And heartbroken. Brandon’s mother had died when he was six and this new, adult grief flattened him.

Paul, his lover of five years, left him a few months after his father's funeral.

“I can’t take all this depression, I just can’t,” Paul had said one gray afternoon. Brandon looked up from stoking the logs in the fireplace. Paul’s face was torn, his conflict clear on his golden-boy features. “I’m sorry, really sorry. I know this is a terrible time, but this isn’t working for me anymore.”

Brandon blinked, too stunned to react. He knew Paul was right; there was nothing more Paul could do to make his grief lessen, to make his heart open up again, to take away the pain of feeling orphaned. Nothing.

Brandon set down the poker on the hearth and walked out the door on shaking legs. The keys to his truck were on the kitchen counter, but he couldn’t bear to go back inside Paul’s house, so he push started it. Pushing the weight of the truck which felt lighter than his own heart. He jumped in and popped the clutch. When the engine kicked on, it loosened something twisted inside his chest. He felt warm tears down his face as he drove home.

Now, he took turns riding Nit and Wit. When he left the pasture, the horse remaining would whinny, stamp its hooves, and gallop the fence-line until Brandon was out of sight. It wrenched at him each time it happened, reminded him that he and Paul usually rode four times a week and now he was lucky to saddle each horse once a week.

Alone.