None of Dominique’s horses could be considered show-worthy. Abused and neglected and finally sent to the slaughterhouse, Dominique had saved them. They had that look in their eyes, as though they knew. How close they’d come. As Henri sometimes looked, in his quiet moments. As Rosa looked. The same expression she sometimes caught in Jean-Guy’s eyes. And Armand’s. They knew. That they’d almost died. But they also knew that they’d been saved.
