It smelled of sweet hay, leather, and cedar shavings.

An elderly man with gray hair and a leather medical bag stepped forward from the tack room.

“Dante,” the man said, looking at the horse with deep concern. “What happened to him?”

“An intentional injury,” Dante said. “A needle to the hock. It was meant to look like an infection.”

The vet frowned, stepping closer to examine the bandage I had applied at the diner.

He gently peeled back the adhesive tape, inspecting the wound.

“Who did this dressing?” the vet asked, looking up at us.

“I did,” I said.

The vet looked at me, his eyes assessing my posture. “Clean work. You saved his joint from permanent damage. Another few hours, and he would have been ruined.”

Dante stood beside me, his presence heavy and silent.

“She stays with the horse,” Dante told the vet. “Administer whatever he needs, but she oversees his care.”

The vet nodded. “Of course, Dante.”

I guided Vesper into a large, padded stall at the end of the aisle.

The stallion lowered his head, sniffing the fresh straw before taking a long drink of water.