His warm-brown leather chaps, with darkened spots from wear, match his eyes. They’re the color of the tiger’s-eye stones I liked as a child. Bright and shiny, perfectly polished. The collar of his dark blue shirt rubs against where his hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, and his broad shoulders peek out from the vest he wears. The one with padding to protect him from hard falls, or flying hooves, or well-placed horns.
“The one with padding to protect him from hard falls, or flying hooves, or well-placed horns.”
