Chapter 2

Wit nuzzled him. He arched over her strong neck and hugged her. “How ya doing, baby girl?” He scratched her withers—that oh-yeah-just-right spot for horses—and she nibbled at his hip, her teeth on his jeans.

He saw a flutter of movement to his left. The hawk swooped over the grass, then landed on the fence. It screeched and Brandon noticed it held a mouse in its talons. The hawk jumped down into the grass and disappeared. After a few seconds, it flew up to the fence once more, then looked down. The mouse was gone.

Who’s she feeding down there?

The UPS truck chugged into the drive. It backed up to the door and the driver locked the door, as usual, but when he stepped outside Brandon saw it wasn’t Roger, the regular driver, but a wiry young man, short and slight. The driver spotted Brandon and gave a little wave.

The hawk swooped over Brandon’s head, screaming, its wings close enough to stir a breeze in his hair. The bird hovered near the UPS driver, wings flapping. The driver looked up, his eyes wide open.

“She’s protecting something. Watch out!” Brandon called.

The driver waved his arms gently and the hawk zipped back to the fence. When Brandon stepped closer, he saw the driver’s intense, dark eyes and deep-toned skin.

Whoa. Who is this?

Brandon straightened his shoulders.

The young driver kept his gaze on the hawk and moved towards it. After a few steps through the tall grass, he bent down.

“What’s going on?” Brandon asked. He kept one eye on the hawk. She re-settled on the fence post, fluffing her feathers, her sharp claws digging into the wood. On the ground, a young hawk floundered, emitting squeals of alarm. One wing flapped and the bird flailed through the grass as it tried to get away. The other wing was bloody, torn. The hawk got some lift with one wing flapping, but it mostly scrabbled in the grass.

The young man wore the standard brown uniform, “Ramon” stenciled over one pocket. He squatted, gave Brandon a quick glance, and focused on the bird once more.

“He’s been hurt. Maybe he flew into the barbed wire. Probably didn’t know any better.”

“What can we do for him? I’ve seen foxes around here. He won’t be safe even with Momma Bird around,” Brandon said.

The young hawk wobbled through the grass, screeching, his injured wing dragging beside him. They hopped along with him, arms waving. To Brandon’s surprise, the mother hawk didn’t come at them. She cocked her head, seeming puzzled by the awkward humans.

Ramon took off his uniform shirt and threw it over the hawk. The hawk screeched and flapped its one good wing as it tried to fly away. Ramon grabbed his shirt, twisted it with the hawk in it, and stood up.

“You have a box we can put him in? Something small and dark to quiet him down?” Ramon’s voice was calm but urgent, his breath showing in the cool morning air. Ramon’s nipples were black and hard, distracting. Brandon had to make himself think.

“In the store, this way.” They walked towards the back door.

The hawk called again and Ramon struggled with the shirt, its sleeves flapping. “It’s okay, little hawk, it’s all right. We’re gonna take care of you. Quiet now, quiet.”

They stepped inside the store’s backroom. “How about this?” Brandon rearranged a half-dozen equine supplement canisters to get a box down from the shelf. “This is pretty small.”

“That’s fine, thanks. Can we take him to a backroom, someplace quiet?” Ramon’s accent was soft, not traditional Mexican exactly, smoother with that just-a-little-off lilt. Brandon recognized the cadence of his childhood—the soft voices of the barn’s grooms as they cleaned out stalls—a comforting touch of safety in the younger man’s voice.

Brandon led the way to his small office behind the stockroom. A few of the stable’s racing trophies sat on the shelves, five years' worth of Bloodhorsemonthly magazines in cardboard organizers next to them. A yellowed pile of Daily Racing Forms lay on the floor next to a shabby plaid loveseat, its pillows leaking stuffing and showing wear.

The office had heat and it felt stuffy, too warm to Brandon with Ramon so close by. Ramon’s skin was caramel-brown, soft-looking. His chest was smooth, not a trace of hair between his nipples. He had one mole on his left shoulder, brown and raised and the sight of that one imperfection made Brandon’s knees go weak.

Brandon shook himself.

“Can I make a phone call here? To the raptor center?” Ramon asked. He put the box on the loveseat, then waited for permission.

“Raptors? You mean like Jurassic Park raptors?”

“No, raptors like owls and hawks and osprey. There’s a rehab center over in Lakeland. I interned there last semester,” Ramon said through a smile.