Free THIEF: Part 1 by Kimberly Malone Page B

today, so you lucked out.”
                  “Oh.”  I waited a minute, then shrugged when she didn’t continue.  “So…what should I do today?”
                  “You’re also in charge of the women’s bathroom, if it's dirty, but that’s not till the end of the day.”  Juliet flipped a couple pages, searching.  “Hmm…guess that’s it.  Well, and stable clean-up.  That'll take most of your hours, honestly.”
                  “Stable clean-up,” I repeated.  “Like…scooping poop?”
                  “Yep.  And replacing any damp or moldy hay on the floors.”  She checked her watch.  “I’ve got to get out to the corral and help out—the afternoon kids are a bigger group, a little rowdy—but I can send someone to show you.”
                  “I can handle it.”  Scooping shit and laying hay: seemed simple enough.
                  Now, though, I know better.  My palms are already blistered, and no matter how long I’m in here, my nose can’t adjust.  Every first plunge of my shovel into a fresh pile of dear-God-no makes me want to hurl.
                  There’s one horse left in the stables today, a small gray thing with its ribs showing and a diseased-looking coat.  With just an hour left in my workday, I’m tempted to skip his pen altogether, but I can tell from here it’s got to be cleaned.  I open his gate slowly.
                  “Hey…fella,” I say.  I wonder if he can hear how terrified I am.  I’m not an animal person—they don’t bother me, but I just don’t get them.  Those people who walk right up to wild deer or strange dogs, palms outstretched and ready for friendship?  Yeah, that’s not me.
                  The horse is completely indifferent.  When I start shoveling up his floor, he doesn’t even move; I see a huge spot of moldy hay under his feet, but can’t get to it.
                  “Come on, boy,” I coax.  “Step forward a little.”
                  Nothing.
                  I check my watch.  If just hurry up and get this over with, I might have time to sneak to the employee lodge and take a sink bath before the shuttle comes.
                  “Fine,” I tell the horse, “have it your way.”  But when I slide the shovel underneath him, between his feet, he gets spooked.  His hooves stomp and he starts turning in the pen, making these loud, bleating brays.
                  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”  I try to calm him down, but he doesn’t seem to hear me; next thing I know, his ass slams into my shoulder and down I go.  My other arm lands on the shovel.
                  “Shit,” I whisper, when my shock wears off.  My arm’s got a decent laceration, and I can see blood on the tip of the shovel.  My first thought is my dire need for disinfectant.
                  My second thought is, I’m not alone anymore.
     
     

Chapter Two
     
                  Somebody’s at the other end of the pen, whispering sweetly to the horse.  The big guy stops freaking out, calmed just as quickly as he was spooked.  I hurry to my feet and out of the pen, dragging the shovel.
                  “You all right?”
                  “Yeah,” I answer reflexively.  Then, when I see the blood trailing down to my wrist, I add, “Well.  Kind of.”
                  The guy turns from the horse, facing me.  All of the sudden I feel like no more blood is going to my arm; it must all be in my face, for how much I’m blushing.
                  He’s ripped—that’s the first thing I notice.  His shirt might as well be painted on.  There’s a flannel over-shirt tied to his belt loop, jeans slung low on his hipbones.  The spot of sweat in the very center of his undershirt makes me all too aware of my own