The parking lot grew quiet again, save for the low rumble of the SUV’s engine and the heavy, labored breathing of the stallion beside me.

I wiped my blood-stained hand on my apron, the dark fluid leaving a thick, black smear across the white fabric.

“He needs a vet, Mr. Moretti,” I said, looking up at him.

“And he needs one right now.”

“The local vets are on Kroll’s payroll,” Dante said, stepping closer to me.

“Or they are too afraid to touch my stock.”

He looked down at my hands, his eyes sharp and analytical.

I tried to pull my sleeves down over my wrists, but I was too slow.

The faded, silver surgical scars on my wrists were clearly visible under the harsh halogen lights of the parking lot.

They were the marks of a compound fracture from a fall five years ago, the injury that ended my career as a professional trainer.

“You didn’t learn those touch techniques at a roadside diner, Mara,” Dante said.

“I used to work with jumpers,” I said, keeping my voice flat.

“A long time ago.”