Free Making Promises by Amy Lane

Marie’?” Mikhail sounded bemused, and Shane looked away, embarrassed.
    “You have to see him—he’s like a cross between a Great Dane, a Bull Mastiff, and a Newfoundland. It’s like someone went to a dog show and made a ‘big dog DNA milkshake’, and Angel Marie is what popped out. I figured it was either Big Fat Bug-Faced Baby-Eating O’Brian or Angel Marie. I picked Angel Marie.”
    Mikhail blinked for a moment and then smiled. It was a whole smile, not tainted by irony or coquettishness or his perpetual sneer, and if Shane hadn’t been mostly in love as it was, the smile would have done him in.
    “I have seen that movie—right after we arrived here in this country.
    It was very funny.” With that he took Shane’s hand again and led them to the bleachers, where they spent the next hour watching men control horses while wearing armor.
    Shane couldn’t stop talking about it as they walked back to watch Kimmy do her last dance—where he would finally meet the elusive Kurt and take them both to dinner.
    “Deacon would have loved that,” he was saying as they approached the stage, and Kimmy ran around the hay bales set in rows for the audience so she could get ready for the performance. “He’s really good at breaking horses, and he always loves a challenge!”
    “If you know nothing about breaking horses, how do you know he’s good at it?” Mikhail demanded, and Shane found himself a hay bale and sat down before he answered.

    “You have to see him in the ring. The horses practically read his mind. You barely hear any commands or see him do anything—I’ve never even seen him use the whip or anything. And Shooting Star is supposed to be the meanest, orneriest bitch to ever bear a saddle—I’ve heard people who haven’t been on the ranch in years talk about that horse. And Deacon rides her. She thinks he invented hay. He’s just good at his job, that’s all—
    and so’s Crick, but Crick likes to talk to people. Deacon puts all that into horses.”
    “Enough!” Mikhail grunted sourly. “I’m sorry I asked. I don’t want to hear about Deacon, god of horses, any longer. Keep talking about Shane, stupid cop with the insane number of dogs.”
    “And cats.”
    “Cats?”
    “I’ve got six of them too.”
    “Whatever. Tell me about the man who would do that.” Mikhail’s impatience was getting hard to tell from his gentleness, and Shane smiled a little. It was fun getting him riled. But it was hard answering that question.
    Shane sighed and leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, looking around to see which of the people at the Faire that he’d seen during the day would be watching this performance. The family he’d first seen—the one with the teenagers and the small children and the over-plump mother and long-suffering father—was huddled in the corner. The children were munching moodily on some pretzels, and they looked exhausted. So did mom and dad, in a good-natured way. The older children were still talking excitedly, and mom smiled up at her ginormous son and handed him a wrinkled set of bills with a wave of her hand.
    Another parental resolve not to spoil offspring gone with the resolve not to eat another cookie.
    It was a good family, Shane thought, loving these complete strangers with all of his heart.
    “Shane, stupid cop with an insane number of stray animals, is not that interesting a person,” he said after a moment. “Uncle Shane, indulgent spoiler of children—he’s got potential to be someone.” Mikhail leaned forward, matching his pose. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned slightly so that their upper arms were touching, as were their 50

    thighs. He had taken his shirt off for the performance, and it was hot, so he was simply wearing the little turquoise vest. Shane was acutely aware of this smooth-skinned, tanned, muscular body, hot and smelling like sweat and work and cedar and chamomile, seeping heat into Shane’s skin through his new