Sarah never lets on where she gets her horses, but many of them have seen what she calls “bad miles.” I’ve asked where they come from, and she always answers with something vague—like “he needed a new home and I had an empty stall”or “she told me she was ready to move on to something new, so I took her in.” Like they’re stray kittens or something.
“Horses have long memories,” I say, hoping she’ll tell me more.
Her dark eyes meet and hold mine. “Long, long memories.” She runs her hand down Octavia’s face and touches foreheads with the mare. “Thank God they’re also very forgiving.”
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