Thoroughbreds and Trailer Trash by Bev Pettersen

or other fancy products Wally kicked her way. Peanut still creaked when he walked, and his once-shiny coat was dry and dull.
    She shoved her fingers in her mouth and whistled, a sharp blaring noise that rang in her ears. Peanut trotted across the road, bright-eyed and eager for his daily treat.
    “Hey, boy.” She fed him a piece of cut carrot then carefully shot a fifth of the tube of dewormer into his mouth. Enough paste left for four more treatments. The dewormer might outlive Peanut, she thought with an ache.
    It was a shame the infrared machine wouldn’t fit in her backpack. No doubt it would help. The session today had proven its effectiveness, and she was grateful Burke had made her hold the mare under the lights. She rolled her right shoulder, amazed it was still loose and pain free.
    This morning she couldn’t lift her arm high enough to reach Burke’s shoulder; yet when they’d repeated the experiment after the infrared, she’d been able to grip him with ease. Well, not quite with ease since her fingers certainly couldn’t stretch over his brawny shoulder. No doubt about it, if Burke decided to boot employees, he’d have no problem single-handedly tossing them out the door.
    Peanut gave her elbow an impatient nudge. She jerked her attention off men and muscles and back to her pony, wishing she’d led him down the path for some infrared sessions while Wally was still in charge.
    She scratched his damp neck, saw his ears prick and a moment later heard the purr of an engine.
    Aw, shit. Burke was early. And her shirt was too wet, too faded. She considered making a dash to change, but his car had already swooped over the ridge.
    He opened the door and stepped out, giving Peanut a dismissive glance before reaching in and grabbing two big brown bags. Yummy odors wafted on the breeze and her mouth watered. Garlic, onion, tomato, and suddenly it didn’t matter so much that he was intruding.
    “Italian, right?” she asked, pressing a hand over her stomach, hoping he hadn’t heard its delighted rumble.
    He nodded, his gaze drifting over her shirt. “Let’s get inside. You’re soaked.”
    She had a problem taking orders and didn’t move. However, her cheeks flamed when she glanced down and saw how wet her shirt really was. “You’re early,” she muttered. However, his eyes narrowed on her chest with open appreciation so she crossed her arms and retreated toward the trailer.
    “Hope you brought something to drink with that,” she called over her shoulder, aware she sounded churlish but needing to have the last word. “I’ve got stuff to do too, so you can’t stay long. And my company always sits on the porch.”
    “I have wine,” he said. “Dessert too.”
    “That’s the best kind of company. Guess you can come inside for a minute.” She swung around in time to catch the twitch of his lip and couldn’t help but smile back.
    His gaze swung over the trailer’s aluminum siding, its patchwork roof, and she braced for the inevitable flash of disdain. Even Wally was never quite able to hide his revulsion. Sure, he tried but no one could totally conceal it.
    “Jenna, every time I drive by this place I want to order a backhoe.”
    He wasn’t trying to hide anything and her discomfort fizzled, blowing out her mouth in a ragged laugh. She paused on the steps, no longer worried about her wet shirt or about how she didn’t want him to see her cramped kitchen.
    “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it.” The admission left her strangely light. “My mom was born here. Her dad kept foxhounds for the local hunt. Peanut is older than me.” She sighed. “It would hurt so much to leave.”
    “It’s a beautiful location.” His smile was quick and understanding. “And you’re one up on me. My father had six houses and a horse farm, and I never cared for any of them.”
    “Well, I do care about this. So please don’t call in your wrecking crew.” She glanced at the bags in his arms and held open the door.