Hot Rocket. And then it hits me. “That wasn’t his original name, was it?”
Her face reddens as we start to walk after the kids, so I know I’m on the right track. “Was it…Crotch Rocket?” I murmur. “Hmm?”
She gives me a death glare. “Like those motorcycles,” I say, grinning. That is so damn funny.
“Yes,” she says dryly. “Some fool redneck named him Crotch Rocket.”
“Hey, they’re fast.”
“He’s fast,” she affirms.
“Is he? He’s a race horse?”
“He’s a horse who races,” she says, striding out ahead of me as the kids disappear around the side of the house.
“Same thing,” I say.
“Not so much. He’s not an income earner with me. I just ride for fun.”
We jog after the kids for a moment, and I try not to look at her ass. It’s an amazing ass. I focus instead on her ponytail. “Slow down now,” she shouts at the kids. “We’re old folks.” She cuts her eyes at me. “One of us is.”
“Hey, I’m still in my prime.”
She snorts.
Oliver turns around to look at us, and he and Margot start to walk backward. “Are you riding in a rodeo tonight?” Oliver asks.
She gives him a small smile. “Something like that.”
“What do you guys think?” I ask the kids. “I think we’ll have to go and watch her.”
“Yesss!” Margot says.
June shoots me a look of loathing.
“What? We want to cheer you on, Aunt June.”
“I’m not your Aunt June.” She gives me a baleful look. It makes me grin. “Okay, June. You know, I heard it’s actually June Bug.”
“Doesn’t have the ring that Burke Bug does,” she claps back.
Again, I give a hoot of laughter. “I’m more of a stallion.”
I’m going for ridiculous, but she won’t even crack a small smile. June rolls her eyes, pulls her hair from its ponytail, and tosses the thick locks over her shoulder.
“Is that right?” she says, sounding dry and unimpressed.
“I can ride, too, you know.”
“Oh, can you. You take some fancy lessons?”
“Like the kids here.”
“That’s…so wonderful,” she says, her tone syrupy as we continue walking after the kids.
“We ride horses out in California, too.”
She looks at me, and I can’t read her face. “You want to ride Hot Rocket?”
“Sure.”
She strides ahead of me as the kids crest a little hill, approaching a big, red barn. “Sounds like a plan.”
From the outside, the barn looks about the size of your average roller skating rink. It’s got a gray tin roof, the classic-looking double doors on one side, and a little round hole by the doors. The round hole, near the bottom of the barn’s external wall, and some of the lawn around it are surrounded by wire fencing.
June stops by the fencing, makes a clucking sound, and chickens start to march out. They gather along the fence, and I watch June’s face spread into a big grin.
“Hi there! Cinderella…Snow White…Ariel…Moana…Sleeping Beauty…Elsa…Anna…Rapunzel.” She holds her hand open, facing the kids. “Hold your hands out and I’ll give you some feed to sprinkle in there with them.”
Margot squeals. “They like me!” The birds squawk and scatter at her delight.
“You scared the chickens,” Oliver says, giving her a glare.
“It’s okay. Just throw this in. There are some roosters, too.” They come out on cue. “That’s Aladdin and Peter Pan,” she tells them, pointing out each rooster.
For the next few minutes, I watch as she explains the birds’ quirks to Oliver and Margot.
“This one here, Elsa—she likes to be held. Do you want to see me hold her?”
It’s a fucking treat to watch June scoop the little chicken up. She holds her hands out, palms spread, like she’s miming a bird, and Elsa the mostly white chicken scrambles over. June seals her hands around Elsa and then quickly brings the bird against her chest.
“Do you want to know why she likes this? Because Elsa is a rescued chicken. She was my first chicken. She was raised since she was tiny by an older woman nearby who really liked to hold her. So when that woman…couldn’t care for her any more, I took her.”
I’d be willing to bet the woman died, based on June’s face when she said it. But the kids don’t bat an eye. Eventually, they both hold Elsa. Then June leads us inside, to a stable that has eight stalls.
“At certain times, we’ve had more horses. My grandmother’s sister, who’s in heaven now, had this place built. She loved to breed race horses. That was a long time ago,” she adds with a small frown, which she quickly covers with a smile. “Hot Rocket is down here…”
And like his owner, the old boy is damned beautiful. He’s black-brown, with healthy muscle and a shiny coat. Looks like he’s maybe a quarter horse.
As soon as we get within his range of vision, he steps over to the rail, and June feeds him something from her pocket.