Sing for Your Supper Read Online Free PDF Page B

hoped the shaking—my nerves telling me to not be the kind of confrontational asshole that led to people threatening me with branding irons—didn’t show. “Then call me Taylor. I’m not a kid.”
    A wide grin spread over Jim’s face. “No shit.” He nodded, and I couldn’t help grinning myself, completely stoked by the implied approval, and aware Matt and his subtly commanding ways had primed me for that response. “You’ll do. Put that sack in the bunk room over there,” he pointed to a man door off to the right of the barn’s main entrance, “and I’ll show you around.”
    The whirlwind tour included a fine view of his ass as I followed him around, as well as a detailed explanation of the stalls that were occupied, and by whom. He seemed to have a very set idea that horses were people, just more practical and easier to get along with. I couldn’t immediately find a flaw in his reasoning, so I didn’t bother to argue.
    At the paddock gate, he pointed out which horses were to be kept apart. A big, grey gelding, apparently called Apollo, but answering equally to Ape or Dumbass, nosed at my shirt pockets. Eventually, he contented himself with letting me rub my hand over his spotted hide when he found nothing of interest on my person.
    Jim shook his head and smacked the horse on his high, arched neck. “This shit doesn’t get along with anyone. If you can get a saddle on him, you can ride him. Just wear steel-toed boots. He’s a stomper.”
    “Maybe you just don’t like to be called names, huh, boy?”
    The horse nudged at my palm and I rubbed his forehead. “We’ll get along just fine, you and me.”
    “Well aren’t you just the horse whisperer.”
    “They’re in my blood. Just because I chose not to work for my father doesn’t mean I have anything against horses.”
    “Fair enough.” He watched me commune with the horse for a few more minutes before speaking again. “I’m goin’ out on a limb here, and sayin’ there must be more to that story.”
    “Knock yourself out.” I carefully kept my gaze on the horse. “Swing like a monkey from that limb, if you like.”
    “You ain’t runnin’ but you ain’t talkin’?”
    Finally, I met his dark, insistent gaze. “You figure my reasons for leaving home are going to affect how well I shovel shit?”
    Half a grin twisted his face and his eyes took on a speculative glint as they swept down to my boots and back up.
    I did not imagine that. He just checked me out.
    When he met my gaze again, the glint had heat. Or I was projecting.
    “Probably not. Come on. I’ll show you the rest.” He cast a worried glance up at the clouds, already moving back the way they had come and leaving behind sultry heat in place of rain. “Coulda used that.”
    I followed the small puffs of dust he scuffed up as he moved across the yard.
    The next half hour was a litany of feeding and mucking schedules, as well as numerous mentions as to where the shovels and manure pile were located.
    Guess I know what’s first on my agenda, then.
    I also got a flyby of the house, the vegetable gardens, which were as weed infested as the flower gardens, but yielding half decently, considering the dry conditions and the tangle. He waved an arm towards the hay fields—it would be upwards of a month before the first harvest was ready—and launched a rambling discourse on the lay of the grazing pastures and where the cattle were most likely to be found when.
    The sun beating down raised a rivulet of sweat between my shoulder blades, and I found myself eyeing the pond off behind the house with longing. It had been a longer, hotter drive up from town than I’d expected, and the tour, under the mid-afternoon sun, had been extensive. Not the kind of tour you gave someone you didn’t expect things to work out with . It was a small thing, but an encouraging one. Maybe Matt’s recommendation carried more weight than Jim had let on.
    “That’s just about it for the grounds. The fences