His ribs pressed against his skin, but despite his frail appearance, there was strength in the way he moved, controlled, deliberate, as if each step carried purpose. Ambrose sighed. Well, guess we better get you settled in, he muttered, patting the horse’s neck gently.
The horse flinched at the touch, not in fear, but in a way that made Ambrose pause. It was almost as if he was waiting for something. Ambrose led him into the barn, guiding him into an empty stall.
The old wooden wall smelled of hay and rain-soaked earth. He filled a bucket with water, watching as the horse took a cautious sip before stepping back. He wasn’t desperate, wasn’t frantic like most neglected animals.
He was controlled, composed. Ambrose folded his arms, studying him. What’s your story, boy? The horse simply blinked at him, his deep brown eyes unreadable.
It was only then, as Ambrose leaned against the stall door, that he noticed something strange. A marking, partially hidden beneath the mud and grime caked onto the horse’s side. It was faint, almost invisible under the dim barn light.
But there was no mistaking it. It was a brand. An old, weathered brand.
Ambrose’s heart skipped a beat. That mark, it was familiar. Too familiar.
His stomach twisted as memories he had long buried clawed their way to the surface. And for the first time that night, Ambrose felt something close to fear. Ambrose couldn’t tear his eyes away from the brand on the horse’s side.
He stepped closer, brushing his calloused fingers over the faded marking, clearing away some of the dried mud. His breath hitched. The shape, it was unmistakable.
A circle with an arrow through it. Ambrose took a slow step back, his pulse quickening. That brand belonged to Halston Stables, one of the most prestigious racing barns in the country.
A place known for breeding champions, for selling horses worth more than entire farms like his. But how in the hell did a horse from a backwoods auction for fifty bucks? The realization sent a shiver down his spine. This wasn’t just some nameless, unwanted horse.
This animal had a history. One that someone had clearly tried to erase. Ambrose swallowed hard.
He needed answers. He turned to the tack room, where an old dust-covered filing cabinet sat wedged between stacks of forgotten saddles and tools. His hands trembled slightly as he rummaged through a drawer filled with faded documents and dog-eared auction catalogs.
He had spent years attending sales, keeping notes on bloodlines, brands, and barns. It was a habit from when he used to dream big, back when he thought he might make a name for himself in the horse world. Flipping through the brittle pages, his eyes darted from one old listing to another.
And then, suddenly, there it was. A photograph. A younger version of the same horse, his coat shining, his muscles lean and defined.
He was standing tall, a champion’s fire in his eyes. Below the picture, the name was printed in bold, elegant letters. Waymaker, sired by Iron Legacy, owned by Halston Stables.
Ambrose exhaled sharply. He had heard that name before. Hell, everyone had heard that name before.
Waymaker wasn’t just some horse. He was a legend. Five years ago, he had been one of the most promising racehorses in the country.
People called him the Horse with Heart, known for coming from behind in impossible races, defying odds. But then, one day, he disappeared. No one knew why.
The racing world had whispered rumors, an injury, a scandal, a cover-up, but no solid answers ever came. Until now. Ambrose looked from the old photograph to the frail, tired creature in front of him.
It seemed impossible. How had this once-great champion fallen so far? And why had someone wanted to get rid of him so badly? The Horse, Waymaker, stood quietly in the stall, watching him with those deep, knowing eyes. Ambrose felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Somewhere, somehow, someone didn’t want this horse to be found. And now, he was tangled up in something much bigger than he ever bargained for. Ambrose sat at his worn wooden table, the dim glow of the farmhouse lamp casting long shadows across the room.
The old racing catalogue lay open before him, Waymaker’s picture staring back as if demanding answers. His mind raced. How had a horse once worth millions ended up abandoned at a backwoods auction, sold for pennies? And more importantly, who had let that happen? Outside, the barn creaked as the wind howled through the trees.
Waymaker was settled in for the night, but Ambrose couldn’t shake the unease crawling through his chest. He reached for the old rotary phone on the wall, his fingers hovering over the dial. There was only one person he could call.