My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

An Andalusian with a silver-white mane lifted his neck and watched me with princely suspicion. A dark Friesian stallion stood like a carved storm cloud in the next stall, one hind foot cocked, eyes bright and intelligent beneath his forelock. Two quarter horses, one chestnut, one bay, moved with the easy steadiness of ranch stock. A sleek thoroughbred mare regarded me with refined impatience. And in the corner, an Appaloosa with the softest expression of the lot let out a low, warm sound as if greeting someone expected.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

I turned sharply.

A man in his sixties stepped out from the tack room wiping his hands on a folded rag. He wore denim, work boots, and the kind of weathered face that suggested half his life had been spent outdoors and the other half refusing to complain about it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Name’s Ellis. Your husband hired me on as stable manager.”

Of course he had. Joshua would never have left living creatures to chance.

“I’m Catherine Mitchell.”

He smiled gently. “Yes, ma’am. I figured.”