Sassy Blonde (Three Chicks Brewery 1)

Amelia gave a gentle smile. “You’re right, she would.”

Clara added, “We’re here for you.”

Maisie glanced between her sisters. She’d always felt so different from them growing up, but Laurel’s death had changed that. And the best friend that gave so much love to Maisie, in death, had brought Maisie closer to her sisters. They’d loved her hard through her grief and brought her back from that unforgiving pain. For that, Maisie had stuffed her dreams of owning an art studio far away, giving all of herself to the brewery, even if she was late and didn’t always get things right. “Thanks,” she said to her sisters. “Now let me get back to work, would ya? Geesh, you’re always holding me up. Don’t you know I have a thousand things to do today?”

Amelia laughed softly.

Clara rolled her eyes.

Maisie chuckled, reminding herself that laughing was good. Especially on days like today. Smiling, enjoying life, was the best way she could honor Laurel’s life. She finally pulled the heavy door open and hurried through, when the reality of what was ahead of her hit her like a brick to the face. The first festival was in Fort Collins, then Colorado Springs, finishing up in Boulder. Panic creeped up like icy fingertips along her spine. She was in way over her head, never having done anything like this before. Her pink Converse scraped against the rough floor as she moved farther into the storage room, her nose scrunching at the musty air.

Pushing aside her fear of failing—since failure was not an option—she pulled out the note in her back pocket of her blue jeans, scribbled with her to-do list. The first item on that list: kegs. She grabbed the dolly, moving toward the kegs with the Foxy Diva label. She smiled at the label of the vintage sexy pin-up woman with Foxy Diva written in calligraphy around her. Maisie was proud of the design, and she was still surprised Clara approved the logo. But Foxy Diva was an Indian pale ale with a buttload of spices that Maisie knew nothing about, and Amelia had said the spiciness of the woman fit the beer inside perfectly. That had been the first time Amelia had ever taken Maisie’s side, and Maisie still felt the high from that.

Determined to get the trailer packed and the workday behind her, Maisie shoved the dolly under the keg and pulled back, her arms shaking as the dolly caught the edge of the keg.

She wobbled once.

And again.

Then she was falling. And something metal and shiny and big was coming with her.

Hayes Taylor refused to acknowledge today’s anniversary and kept his focus on this work, like he’d done every day for the last two years. The past was behind him, and he stood firmly in the present at Blackshaw Training, a horse training facility. Over the past sixteen months he’d worked there, he had seen a dangerous horse now and again, but nothing like the chestnut gelding with the white stripe currently staring him down. Threat. The gelding’s black eyes screamed at Hayes. Danger. And at the particular moment, Hayes was dangerous to the gelding. Horsemanship wasn’t about breaking an animal. It was about communicating, and somewhere in this horse’s life, that communication crossed a line it shouldn’t have.

“First thoughts?” Hayes asked, turning to Beckett Stone, his good friend since high school. Beckett’s sandy-brown hair didn’t seem to have a style, and his face needed a good shave. But Beckett’s rough edge was what the ladies liked most. Or so the gossip around town suggested.

Beckett removed his Stetson and ran a hand through his hair. “I think you’ve got your hands full with that one. And if it were me, I’d be wearing full body gear anytime I was near him.”

Hayes snorted, hooking his boot up on the fence railing. “That’s why you don’t ride the troubled ones and instead handle the young ones.”

Unbothered by the remark, Beckett barked a laugh. “Yeah, ’cause I’m not looking to die at thirty.”

While they were the same age, and Beckett hadn’t meant the remark as a dig, two years ago, Hayes was looking for that. Even he could admit that he’d taken risks a sane man wouldn’t. He gravitated toward working with mentally broken horse

s because he felt equally broken himself. He hadn’t recovered from Laurel’s death. When his wife was murdered, Hayes lost it. As a cop, he should have stopped it. After Laurel’s murder, he couldn’t protect anyone anymore. He walked away from the badge and his job at the Denver Police Department, moved back to River Rock, and found a home at Blackshaw Training. Getting back to a simpler life had been his salvation.

Hayes took a deep breath, letting go of the tension rising in his chest. The west wind picked up the floral scents of wildflower and ringing wind chimes in the distance. Hayes glanced back at the two-story log house with the wide, covered deck where Nash Blackshaw, the owner of the farm, lived with his wife, Megan, and son. A black-roofed barn housed injured horses or horses needing stabling for the night. Next to the barn was the sand ring used for training. Every sound, from the hooves stomping the ground, to tails swooshing, to the horses whinnying, all brought Hayes back to a place before Laurel’s murder. His childhood. He’d grown up working on the Blackshaws’ cattle farm during his summers throughout high school and police training. Those years held some of his favorite memories. His happiest for sure, when things with Laurel had been quiet and good, and she’d come out to the farm to go on a ride.

“Let me see exactly what his owners want from us,” Hayes finally said to Beckett.

Beckett slid his hat back in place. “Good luck. Remember not to sign your death warrant. You are allowed to turn down a job.”

Hayes nodded but didn’t reply. Saying no was near impossible after one look at the heartbroken teenage girl who came out of the barn to meet them. She wore fancy equestrian gear, beige breeches, tall, shiny black boots, and a black T-shirt. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a tight ponytail and her makeup was heavy. Hayes entered the ring, moving toward the horse that kept a close eye on him.

Colin Calloway, the father of the teenage girl, approached. He wore a suit, looked fancy, and he’d paid a good chunk of cash for a horse who was trained in show jumping and suddenly decided it didn’t want to do its job anymore.

“What did you see?” the father asked when he reached Hayes.

“A dangerous horse,” Hayes stated simply.

Colin’s dark eyebrows went up. “You got that from one look?”

“I got that from the way he’s sizing me up.”

Colin sighed and glanced back at his daughter, who had walked up to the horse and stroked his face. “Every trainer I’ve taken him to doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. It’s like a switch goes off. One second, he’s approachable. The next, the devil gets into him.”

Hayes started to explain that the problem wasn’t the horse, but the communication between the horse and the human, when suddenly Hayes caught the pinning of the horse’s ears, the tensing of his muscles. He jolted forward in the same second the horse went in for a bite. Hayes none-too-gently shoved the teenager aside, sending her toppling over, and rammed himself into the horse, getting his attention off the girl.

The gelding’s head shot up and his nostrils flared as he flew backward. Hayes grabbed the lead line, noting the girl getting up and out of the way. He acted immediately, using the end of the lead line to circle in the air and make the horse’s feet move. Hayes moved hard, fast, not stopping, until the only thing the horse was looking at was him. Without glancing behind him, he led the gelding to one of the individual paddocks, away from the other horses, and closed the gate. He took a few steps back, ensuring the horse didn’t ram the gate, then turned back, finding the girl brushing the sand off her pants. “I’m sorry about that. Are you okay?”