But today, he wasn’t shaking. He had literally torn his heavy lead rope straight from the solid oak post.
Titan reared up on his hind legs, becoming a terrifying, towering silhouette against the light. His massive hooves sliced through the air before slamming into the dirt, right between me and my stepdad.
The ground literally shook beneath my hands.
Titan lowered his enormous head, his ears pinned flat against his skull. He let out a hot, heavy snort that blew dust up into my stepdad’s face.
His one good eye was locked entirely on the man who was about to hurt me.
He didn’t move an inch. He stood over my small, huddled body like an impenetrable breathing fortress.
My stepdad scrambled backward in sheer, unadulterated panic. He tripped over a rusted pitchfork and fell hard onto his back in the dirt aisle.
All his arrogant rage vanished in a split second. It was replaced by pure, wide-eyed terror. He threw his hands up over his face, frantically trying to crab-walk away.
Titan let out another low, rumbling warning, stomping one massive hoof.
Then, the heavy, uneven thud of boots broke the tension.
Arthur stepped out from the tack room.
Arthur was the owner of the sanctuary. He was a sixty-year-old retired military veteran who walked with a severe limp and rarely spoke above a mumble. He had a face carved from stone and eyes that had seen too much.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t run. He just walked calmly over to the giant, angry horse.
Arthur placed a steady, calloused hand on Titan’s thick neck. The giant horse immediately stopped snorting, though his massive body remained planted firmly in front of me as a shield.
Arthur looked down at my stepdad, who was still frozen on the ground, chest heaving in panic.
Slowly, the old man leaned over. He grabbed the front of my stepdad’s jacket with one hand, hauling him halfway up from the dirt.
