My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

An Andalusian with a silver-white mane lifted his neck and watched me with princely suspicion. A dark Friesian stallion stood like a carved storm cloud in the next stall, one hind foot cocked, eyes bright and intelligent beneath his forelock. Two quarter horses, one chestnut, one bay, moved with the easy steadiness of ranch stock. A sleek thoroughbred mare regarded me with refined impatience. And in the corner, an Appaloosa with the softest expression of the lot let out a low, warm sound as if greeting someone expected.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

I turned sharply.

A man in his sixties stepped out from the tack room wiping his hands on a folded rag. He wore denim, work boots, and the kind of weathered face that suggested half his life had been spent outdoors and the other half refusing to complain about it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Name’s Ellis. Your husband hired me on as stable manager.”

Of course he had. Joshua would never have left living creatures to chance.

“I’m Catherine Mitchell.”

He smiled gently. “Yes, ma’am. I figured.”

His voice carried the wide vowels of rural Alberta, softened by age and restraint. He did not offer condolences right away, and for that I liked him immediately. Some griefs do not need fresh handling every five minutes.

“You knew my husband well?” I asked.

“Well enough to know he was the sort of man who checked every gate twice and never asked anybody to do a job he wouldn’t do himself.” Ellis glanced toward the stalls. “He talked about you often.”

That undid me more than it should have. Widows become greedy for ordinary details. Not declarations. Not grand final messages. Simple continuities. He asked about the weather. He hated store-bought pie crust. He fixed a loose hinge himself because he thought the contractor was overcharging. He talked about you.

Ellis must have seen something shift in my face because his own expression softened.

“The black one there,” he said, nodding toward the Friesian, “that’s Midnight. Your husband spent near six months tracking him down through a breeder outside Edmonton. Said you once loved a painting of a horse looked just like him.”

I laughed once, quietly, in disbelief.