Amelia tilted her head to the horse. “He’s a beautiful animal. What’s his name?”
“He doesn’t have one.” His cold mask slipped into place faster than an avalanche roaring down a mountainside. “I don’t name animals. Not anymore.”
Not anymore. What had happened to him after his stepfather had thrown him out at the tender age of thirteen? “May I name him?”
“Suit yourself.” Colt poured a scoopful of cracked corn and oats into the horse’s trough. “Amelia, I feel undressed without my gun. Where did you hide it?”
“I think I’ll call him Angel. He’s as white as a Christmas angel.”
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