Sleepy Fox Hollow foolish men

sundown had seen stallions before. plenty of them thought they owned the land just because their hooves touched it, thought they owned the mares just because they breathed the same air. but this one—colosseum—approached differently. slow. measured. she saw the way he carried himself, power held in check, curiosity woven into his steps like a storm deciding if it would break.   

and yet, it wasn’t him that got her ears twitching. it was his lead mare, fancy. the older mare cutting between her and the bay with the sharp, warning energy only seasoned mares could wield, a command to move along. sundown didn’t bolt. she wasn’t some green-broke filly to be scattered by a glare. instead, she shifted her weight, ears tipping back as fancy jabbed her muzzle toward her hindquarters. a beat passed—one second, maybe two—before sundown’s hip cocked, a hind leg lifting just enough to make a point. a ghost of a kick, nothing but air between them, but the message was clear: back off.

a lesser horse might have skittered off, but sundown wasn’t bred for obedience. she was wild to the marrow, and even if she wasn’t looking to fight, she wasn’t one to be herded like some fresh-caught filly—didn’t need her command or nor her guidance. then, just as smoothly, she let her steps carry her a few strides away, a sharp snort huffing from her nostrils as she turned enough to keep both fancy and the stallion in her sights.

the stranger had fire, just as sundown suspected. colosseum's approach was sugary sweet, but too much so—the woman had no interest in sweetness. she liked her already.

ain’t your sugar. sundown liked that, too.