My abusive stepdad raised his hand to strike me, but he didn’t realize a two-thousand-pound blind rescue horse had just broken its restraints right behind him.
“You think you can hide from me?” his voice cracked like a whip across the silent barn.
I scrambled backward into the dirt, hitting the rough wood of the stall door. He stood over me, his face red, fists clenched, chest heaving with that familiar, terrifying rage.
I had skipped my chores again to work at the local horse rescue, and he had finally tracked me down.
“Get up,” he snarled, stepping closer. “You’re coming home right now, and you’re going to learn what happens when you disrespect me.”
I curled into a ball, wrapping my arms around my head. I knew the drill. Keep quiet, close your eyes, and just wait for the impact.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the heavy strike that was about to land.
But the strike never came.
Instead of a slap, I heard a sound that chilled me to the bone. It was a deafening, terrifying screech. The sound of raw, unbridled fury.
I opened my eyes just in time to hear the sharp, violent crack of thick wood splintering. A massive shadow suddenly blocked out the afternoon sun streaming through the barn doors.
It was Titan.
Titan wasn’t an ordinary horse. He was a Clydesdale, a towering mountain of muscle and bone weighing well over two thousand pounds.
He was a rescue. He had been starved, neglected, and beaten so badly by his previous owners that he was completely blind in his left eye. His back was mapped with thick, ugly scars.
Usually, Titan was terrified of loud noises. A dropped bucket would send him shaking into the corner of his stall. He trusted almost no one. Except me.
