Love and Peaches by Jodi Lynn Anderson

her arm. Leeda realized self-consciously that maybe she had overdressed, and she fidgeted in her boots.
    With a stiff, reluctant movement, Grey propelled himself toward the maroon metal gate and began fiddling with the latch, opening it with a creak and indicating that she should enter. About twenty feet away, a knot of ponies watched them curiously.
    â€œThanks,” Leeda said, stepping in and watching around her feet. It must have rained recently, because the ground was soggy and littered with small puddles that threatened to sully her boots. Sullying was something Leeda was used to from the orchard, but she always avoided it when she could.
    Grey closed the gate behind her, sliding the metal Y of the latch back around the post of the door. Leeda turned on a charming smile for him, but he didn’t look at her. He walked toward the stables, across the muddy field. Leeda, unsure whether she was supposed to follow or not, started after him.
    The stable consisted of a long, wide rectangle, open to the air but for an overhanging roof perched on posts. On each side of a long middle hallway were wooden pens—about fifteen to aside. Grey wove to the left instead of going on and led Leeda to the back, where a sort of wooden shed was attached.
    â€œTack room’s in here,” he said, opening the door and showing her into a dirt-floored room full of saddles, buckets, ropes, halters, and instruments of all sorts—brushes and weird silver-tipped things Leeda didn’t recognize. It smelled like leather and oil and old hay, pleasant and earthy. On the opposite wall was another door, and Grey led her through that to the long row of stalls.
    â€œYou put them in here every day?” Leeda asked, realizing Grey wasn’t going to offer the information.
    â€œOnly when it’s really cold, or in bad weather, or for grooming and feeding.” The stalls were small—the doors were only a little higher than Leeda’s waist. The stable looked more like somewhere the seven dwarves would live than a place that housed actual creatures. And, appropriately, each stall had a sign hanging from its swinging wooden door: Mitzie, Tinkles, Sleepy, Sneezy, Chauncy, The Baron, Mr. Jinxy.
    Grey’s hand moved along the top of the doors as he walked. He stopped to do tiny things here and there—move a shovel to its rightful place, tie up a rope—his dirty hands moving like afterthoughts. Leeda got the feeling, even through the tiny movements, that he was strong and quick. He didn’t look back at her once.
    They came out at the end and stepped off the concrete platform into the dirt, back into view of the ponies, who had gathered in the early morning shade of some trees that hung over the fence. They were comical to look at, like cartoon characters, squat and a little rounded at the belly. There were a few speckled ones,but most of them were solid colors—dark brown, tan, or black, with patches of white here and there.
    They peered back at Leeda as she eyed them warily. A few were nibbling at leaves. Some gathered in little groups. The rest stood in a sociable knot, as if they were all gossiping about something, casting Leeda glances as if she were the one being gossiped about.
    â€œOh.” Leeda suddenly remembered. “Is that your Chihuahua on the porch?”
    Grey shook his head. “People assume because we’re a pony rescue, we’re also an animal rescue. You’ll need to let me know what you want me to do with all the strays that show up.”
    â€œWhat did Grandm—what did Eugenie have you do?”
    â€œThe pound,” Grey said.
    Leeda cringed. “That’s terrible.” The pound was at the edge of town toward the highway. Birdie never let Leeda drive past it when she was in the car. It made her too sad that they put animals to sleep.
    â€œDo you want to keep them instead?” he asked, looking at her directly. Leeda could tell it was a kind of challenge.