Apocalipstick (Hell in a Handbag Book 1) by Lisa Acerbo (the best e book reader txt) 📗

considering what to feed all the barn yard critters, especially when winter comes.”

“You are such the planner. Let’s go.”

“Happy to help.”

She handed him a lead line. “Thanks. You handle the bigger one.”

“Not a problem.” Quentin quirked a brow. “For you, anything.”

The blush spreading across her cheeks kept her lips sealed.

The horses were docile, obviously someone’s mount at one time or another. Neither draft complained when halters went over their noses and the couple tied them on a long line to graze.

“I’ll be done soon. Do you want an extra hand with those two ragged beasts?” he asked.

“I’d love help.”

“I have to finish with the pipe in Emma’s room. I promised myself I’d clean out the loft in the barn. You could help with cleaning, and then we could groom the horses. There might be tack and supplies there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You’ll probably want to check their feet too. I don’t know how rough the weather and ground has been on them.”

“Don’t we need a hoof pick? Not sure I remember how to do it the right way. I don’t want to get kicked.”

“Give me some time to finish this project,” Quentin said. “Come back to the barn in a little bit and we’ll figure it out.”

She sent him a wave and returned to the garden. As she plucked weeds, Cat emerged from the woods to pay a visit. He rather liked his new home but preferred to be outside most of the time. There was the occasional gift of a dead mouse on her bed, but otherwise, he failed to show her much love or attention.

He’s still miffed at the fact she’d shoved him in a duffel bag when escaping the Streakers in Pittsfield.

He sniffed at her plants and twined between her ankles before heading off to the barn. Cat loved Quentin and would happily perch in the barn, watching him work.

Watching Quentin work might not be so bad.

Her gaze returned to the horses. Jenna loved the relaxation of the garden, but time dragged today. She weeded a row and then another.

Twenty minutes, maybe. What she wouldn’t give for a cell phone to tell time right now. One more row and then back to the barn.

A few minutes later Quentin left with the piece of pipe and return not long after. In the barn, they climbed the creaky steps to the loft. One door lay on the ground, off its hinges. Quentin swung the other back. The weathered, antique floorboards protested loudly under his 180 pounds. The dust had settled heavily amid a jumble of objects. While there was a large, cleared space in the center of the loft, antique farm equipment and non-essential items from the inn invaded most of the area.

“How do you want to do this?” Jenna asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s really stuffy.” Quentin drew his T-shirt over his head, exposing tight abdominal muscles and ropey arm muscles. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not so much.” She focused on the daunting task before her. “Why don’t we carry anything useful downstairs and clean it up? We’ll deal with the rest of it some other day.”

“It’s a plan.” He moved to one of the many piles scattered around the room.

After hauling, pushing, and carrying, Jenna’s back was sore, and her arms hurt. Her throat was parched thanks to all the dust, but she had it easy. Quentin had dragged heavy items from the loft for her to organize. Piles of usable clothes, tools, and supplies filled the space.

His footsteps battered the stairs.

“Not another pile. Let’s call it quits. We’ve been at this forever.” She sank next to her collections of books, clothes, tools, junk, and horse tack.

“You got a lot done. We’ll call it a day.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll haul the books and clothes to the inn. You find a space for the tools and tack and then bring the horses in. I’ll bring back some water.”

“You read my mind.”

“The room upstairs would be a great place to store all the horse tack once we get it organized, but for now it might be better here. Thoughts?”

“I like whatever you suggest if it means you’ll bring me a drink. Dying of thirst.”

He saluted and left.

She finished organizing the last of the boxes before Quentin returned.

“Feast your eyes.” She gulped the water he brought.

The horse tack lay organized and clean. While there had been a variety of bridles, saddles, saddle pads, and tools, Jenna had picked out two western saddles, two fluffy saddle pads, and bridles she hoped would fit the drafts. An open tack box displayed brushes and other paraphernalia.

He surveyed her work and whistled in appreciation. “Impressive.”

Grabbing a tack box, they ventured outside. The horses stood munching contently in the field unconcerned at the couple’s arrival.

“Let’s peek at these big guys.” His hand ran over the draft’s flank. “What breed are they?”

The dark brown horses were large and stocky with hooves the size of dinner plates.

“Not sure, but they’re pretty sturdy. Maybe Clydesdale like in the famous commercials. Remember those? Whatever they are they’re solid fellas, aren’t they? They don’t appear worse for wear after being on their own.”

“Adds to the adventure. Who wants to ride a small pony? I’ll grab some brushes out of the tack box.”

“Anything else we need?”

“Did you see anything like an ice pick? It’s to clean their hooves.”

“I’ll go with you and we’ll see.”

“Stay and pet them. They like you. I’ll search the box.”

On his return, he handed off a brush and they groomed and inspected the horses. Mud and debris caked their backs and manes. One had a nasty scar, now healed, on its left shoulder. She picked leaves and twigs out of their manes and tails. The two worked in companionable silence, brushing the horses who relished the attention, leaning into the strokes, heads bobbing. One let out a giant yawn.

“Let me show you how to pick their feet.”

“I remember.” She reached for the draft’s hoof.

“Don’t ruin my fun.” He moved behind, pressing close, his hand warm on hers. “Start at the