Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
When Colt said she wouldn't have sold the horse to him if it wasn't a good one, Damien gave a nod. “I appreciate it,” He replied, "and I figured as much. It's why I reached out to you first. You seemed like the honest type... for better or worse." He shrugged, and gave her a small, humorous smile. "You don't put up with bullshit. I respect that."
He set to work with the saddle like a man sorting through an old memory—muscle pulling up steps his mind hadn’t had to name in years. He laid the blanket smooth across Spud’s back, then the saddle, careful to check for any folds before he cinched the strap. His movements weren’t fast, but they were deliberate, that kind of quiet precision that belongs to people who’ve worked with their hands long enough to know rushing only makes more work later.
When he tightened the girth, he did it in two passes—not yanking, but easing until it was snug. A small thing, but it spoke of someone who’d paid attention somewhere along the way. Once the bridle was in place, he checked the reins and gave the horse’s shoulder a steady pat. “Alright, Spud. Guess we’ll see what you think of me.”
Colt’s voice carried back from the aisle and he turned his head to listen, the corner of his mouth quirking at her practicality. “Pushin’ cattle. Simple enough.” He glanced at the horse as if confirming it with him. “You hear that? Pretty sure that makes you my senior on the job.”
He swung into the saddle—not graceful, but solid—and took a second to settle his balance, boots finding the stirrups, gloved fingers gathering the reins. The leather creaked, the smell of horse and oil filling his lungs again. “Lead the way,” he called to Colt, tone even, ready.
There was no bravado in him, no need to prove anything. Just the look of a man who’d decided to get his hands dirty and trusted the horse beneath him to do half the thinking.
If he felt a flicker of nerves, it didn’t show—just that sharp focus of someone who knew how easily confidence and caution could trade places out here.
He set to work with the saddle like a man sorting through an old memory—muscle pulling up steps his mind hadn’t had to name in years. He laid the blanket smooth across Spud’s back, then the saddle, careful to check for any folds before he cinched the strap. His movements weren’t fast, but they were deliberate, that kind of quiet precision that belongs to people who’ve worked with their hands long enough to know rushing only makes more work later.
When he tightened the girth, he did it in two passes—not yanking, but easing until it was snug. A small thing, but it spoke of someone who’d paid attention somewhere along the way. Once the bridle was in place, he checked the reins and gave the horse’s shoulder a steady pat. “Alright, Spud. Guess we’ll see what you think of me.”
Colt’s voice carried back from the aisle and he turned his head to listen, the corner of his mouth quirking at her practicality. “Pushin’ cattle. Simple enough.” He glanced at the horse as if confirming it with him. “You hear that? Pretty sure that makes you my senior on the job.”
He swung into the saddle—not graceful, but solid—and took a second to settle his balance, boots finding the stirrups, gloved fingers gathering the reins. The leather creaked, the smell of horse and oil filling his lungs again. “Lead the way,” he called to Colt, tone even, ready.
There was no bravado in him, no need to prove anything. Just the look of a man who’d decided to get his hands dirty and trusted the horse beneath him to do half the thinking.
If he felt a flicker of nerves, it didn’t show—just that sharp focus of someone who knew how easily confidence and caution could trade places out here.
