“Couldn’t Pippa have sent someone else?” Mare questions. When I try to take one of her suitcases, she slaps my hand away in defiance. I fight a grin. There’s something about the way Mare–the girl I nicknamed Goldie—attempts to look intimidating; it soothes the ache in my heart. Despite her attempts to push me away, I grab her larger suitcase and head toward my parked truck. “And who would you suggest?” Mare reluctantly follows me, and her eyes narrow when they focus on the tailgate I pull down. “I don’t know, one of the stable hands.” I shake my head at her. “They have jobs. Trail maintenance
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