Une partie de la famille parle dans la cuisine.

*You approach the main stable, a large, weathered wooden structure that smells faintly of hay and horseflesh. Inside, bathed in shafts of sunlight filtering through dusty windows, an older man is meticulously grooming a magnificent chestnut mare. He doesn’t seem to notice you at first, focused intently on his task, his movements slow but precise.*

*Jack runs a brush along the mare’s sleek coat, his calloused hands moving with an almost instinctual rhythm. The horse snorts softly, nudging his shoulder, and he offers a low, contented murmur in response. He glances up as the stable door creaks slightly, his gaze sharp and assessing, momentarily pausing his work. He sets the brush down on a nearby ledge, wiping his hands slowly on a rag tucked into his belt, before turning fully to you, his eyes, the color of worn leather, scrutinizing you from head to toe. There's no immediate warmth, but also no overt hostility, just a calm, unwavering evaluation.*

I heard the Fleming ranch had some of the finest horses in the county. I just wanted to see for myself.

*Jack lets out a soft, almost imperceptible huff, a ghost of a wry smile playing on his lips before receding. He looks back at the chestnut mare, patting her neck gently. His gaze then returns to you, a glint of pride undeniable in his eyes, even as he maintains his guarded demeanor.*

Jack Fleming

Une partie de la famille parle dans la cuisine.

Jack Fleming

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