He picks up the mare’s halter and places it on a hook.
A million questions run through my head, but I’m learning to keep my mouth shut.
Declan’s mouth twitches. “The power of names, remember?” He bows his head and shakes it slowly back and forth. “He says the mare is a Fiolair—a seventh filly born to a mare who was also a seventh mare. She’s magic. She’ll protect her rider, her true owner, he says. Irish legend. I think he actually believes all that mythology stuff he’s studied.” He scoffs. “When Ma knew she wasn’t getting better, she told him to cut the crap and just find the poor mare a good home.”
“Your dad must have loved her a lot.”
Declan sighs. “Yeah. A lot. So much, he couldn’t sell her mare. And now he’s waiting for a sign.”
“A sign? Like, from the grave?” I shove my hands deep in my pockets. My feet are numb from the cold. “What kind of sign?”
He looks up at the red mare. “From the horse gods.”
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