Two years after a horrible accident, Kinsley's determined to make it through vet school, but she didn't expect to meet country boy Noel McLean who's just as mysterious as he is charming.
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Kinsley Hastings suffers from PTSD. After surviving a fata...
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Kinsley
The pasture is mind-boggling.
A barn-wood fence outlines the grassy area. As we walk the perimeter, I run my hand over it. The surface is smooth after years of weathering.
Noel's ahead of me, leading me to the metal gate ahead. When we arrive, he unlocks it, pushes it open, and gestures for me to step through.
Several feet away and to my right are the stables. I can't see much regarding the inside. I hope Noel will give me a tour of the stables.
Steeping through the gate, I wipe sweat from my forehead. Ahead, I see the pregnant mare Noel mentioned yesterday.
Buttercup stands at the far corner, just next to the water trough. She's tan-coloured with a blonde mane. It almost matches my hair colour. Golden-blonde. Similar to wheat beneath the sunshine. A white marking covers her nasal bone and forehead.
Buttercup is a juvenile name. Such a beautiful mare deserves a much more refined name. However, I understand why they chose it. She resembles a buttercup.
The clatter of metal against metal snags my attention. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Noel locking the fence.
"I see why you named her Buttercup."
Noel shakes his head. "It's not because of her colouring. Many people think that. But we named her Buttercup because she was born in April. It was the first day we saw the flowers poking up from the thawing ground. The name seemed fitting. Being the first sign of spring and all. That winter was long and rough. A foal being born—early, I might add—was a breath of fresh air." He squints into the distance. At Buttercup. "Dumb luck is why it suits her."
Okay, maybe the name isn't so juvenile. I love it when there is a deeper reason behind a name. Buttercup is rich with symbolism. Not just the first name they found on Google or dictated by something as simple as colour.
There's a purpose behind it.
My thought pattern makes my logic sound messed up. But it's a side effect of trauma.
There was no purpose behind the accident. It just happened. That drunk driver ruined my life. They shattered the woman I used to be.
"Come on," Noel says. He bumps his shoulder against mine. "Let's introduce you to Buttercup."
"Okay," I nod.
Our gazes are locked. My chest feels tight. Like no matter how many times I take a deep breath, my lungs are never satisfied. It's exhilarating and anxiety-inducing at the same time.
Feeling overwhelmed, I step around Noel and walk across the tall grass.
However, my feet get tangled with my loose shoelaces. One moment, I'm walking. The next, I'm falling to the ground.
