By Chance: Day 3

Word Count: 18,030

Summary of Events:

The Monday immediately after the rodeo, as he'd done every year, Steele immediately returned to work at his winter job at a local feedlot, although he made sure that his boss had him marked as on holidays for the first week of November, when the CFR happened. As part of his job, Steele was given a different horse to ride every so many days, and he learned from his coworker to his immense surprise that the filly he was riding was so valuable she was locked up in the barn at night to ensure she didn't get stolen, and purely because of who her forebears were. He found riding her to be quite enjoyable, leaving him feeling a little reluctant to get off at the end of the day…

Excerpt of the Day:

Standing in the stirrups, Steele let out a quiet sigh of reluctance before drawing his right foot out of the stirrup and bringing it over the filly’s back. He leaned across the saddle seat as he slid his left foot out of its stirrup before sliding down from the saddle. Even if he mounted from the right, he was genuinely more comfortable dismounting from the left, which prompted some people to scratch their heads in confusion as to why, if he, in a way, couldn’t dismount to the right, he couldn’t mount from the left.

Steele draped the reins over the rail and headed into the barn to get the halter and grooming bucket from the tack room. He heard the office doorknob rattle, evidencing that Mr. Winchell hadn’t grabbed it right again.

He was exiting the tack room when Mr. Winchell got the door open, muttering frustrated profanities under his breath.

“That doorknob didn’t want me to catch you,” Mr. Winchell said. “I swear that thing has a will of its own.”

Steele smirked.

“Once you’ve brushed the filly bring her in here and I’ll take care of the feed,” Mr. Winchell said.

Nodding, Steele started off toward the exit.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?” Mr. Winchell asked.

“I’ve already heard,” Steele replied.

“Oh,” Mr. Winchell said, sounding almost disappointed.

Steele carried on to the rail, where he found the filly standing with her head at a low, relaxed level and her hind leg cocked, tilting her hip.

He traded her bridle for her halter and untacked her without her hardly moving a muscle outside of those required to breathe, even as he brushed her, including a vigorous working over the hair that’d been packed into place under the saddle pad and moulded by sweat.

Once he’d groomed her, he carried the tack inside the barn before taking her lead rope and leading her into the barn, where Steele found the stall closest to Mr. Winchell’s office prepared with a clean and cushy bed of straw.

Steele removed the filly’s halter before exiting the stall and closing the door, which he locked, leaving the filly contained securely in the wooden walls of the lower half and the metal bars of the upper half.

He put the halter away and went to the treat area of the tack room, where there was a small bin of oats, as well as a bucket full of bruised apples that the Winchell kids weren’t willing to eat because the bruises were too big or prominent.

Taking up an apple, Steele took it over to the stall and dropped it into the trough that was built into the wall the filly’s stall shared with the adjoining stall.

The filly, who’d been drinking water from the water bucket just inside the door, startled at the sound.

“Sorry,” Steele said softly. “But you should go have a look at what it is.”

Relaxing because the noise didn’t repeat itself, the filly moved toward the trough warily before poking her nose inside. In moments she’d found the apple and bitten into it, taking half of it into her mouth, where she chewed it juicily.