![]() There would always be people wanting to help. Even though she'd tried to keep a low profile since she showed up in Dawson, Oklahoma, a week ago there would always be talk. You aren't going to talk to me that way, missy." ![]() "I don't care if you are Gibson Cross's kid. He pointed a finger at her that trembled. I've been driving by here for a week, and every day that horse is reaching across the fence trying to get one blade of grass. Harmony glanced at the skin-and-bones animal. "I'll give you double what the animal is worth." "No, you didn't," Harmony countered, nearly smiling, yet not. "I just rode him in the rodeo last night." "I don't know why you think I'm not taking care of that animal." The old farmer, with a gray grizzled beard and sunken, hazy brown eyes, scratched his chin, as if he really didn't get it. She needed something to pour her heart into, something that would love her in return and maybe, just maybe, help her find a way back to the person she used to be. Possibly more than anything had ever mattered in her whole life. But the skinny Ap-paloosa, black with a smattering of white on its rump, mattered. ![]() ![]() She also couldn't explain why the horse in his corral mattered so much to her. ![]() The farmer stood his ground, his jeans loose, his button-down shirt frayed, with one button missing. ![]()
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