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Hosea should have known Arthur would have fallen for that damn horse.
Arthur had always been soft on the ‘trouble’ horses. The ones that bit and bucked and kicked, that hated and needed so much work put in them to make them usable. Hosea couldn’t remember a single horse he’d had (aside from his first, which they’d ‘procured’ for him) that hadn’t been a project horse, rescued or stolen off a shitty owner, that he’d spent months coaxing into obeying.
Not that he was complaining. Sure, watching Arthur get bit and kicked upset him. But it made his boy happy, so he was… well, not happy, but content enough. And the horses always turned out to be some of the best in the gang's herd, loyal and bold and brave, happy to charge through gunfights without so much as a flinch if he asked it of them. Bo’ had been a project horse, and even Dutch had been jealous though he had The Count.
So he really shouldn’t have been surprised when Arthur, the moment the horse had started to buck beneath him on the way to Valentine, had fallen in love.
Love at first buck, as he and Dutch liked to say, and really it quite fit.
The horse, the gang would agree, was a goddamn menace.
The O’Driscoll, they were quick to discover, had a golden touch with the horses. Even The Count was happy to let him groom him, something only Dutch had been allowed to do before him. The other horses gravitated towards him like moths to a flame - except for the horse Arthur had yet to name.
The shire had taken one looked at Kieran, and tried to put a hoof through his head.
Duffy had tried to win him over of course. Offered him apples and sugar cubes, peppermint and carrots. But the horse had tried to take his hand off every time, took the treat then tried to take his fingers, chasing him away when he wasn’t allowed his chunk of flesh.
Arthur, of course, thought the Shire couldn’t do anything wrong. Plied him with treats, danced in and out, running the brush down the horse’s fur before jumping back to avoid a bite.
The stallion (who, he hoped, would settle some once he was gelded, but he needed to be able to be handled before they could take him in to be done) was slowly settling - if it could be called that. Still snapped and bit and kicked, and Hosea was one bite from talking to Arthur about selling him. It had been several months, and still he hadn’t even been able to ride the thing - hadn’t even been able to get close without dodging gnashing teeth or flying hooves, and he was worried more and more for Arthur’s safety by the day.
Arthur hadn’t even intended on working with the Shire that day.
But the stallion had seen him giving a flake of hay to Silver Dollar, and sounded so sad as he whickered, and he’d gone soft. It wanted his attention - was voluntarily getting his attention! So he’d grabbed an apple (the Shire’s favorite, as far as he could tell) and approached him slowly and carefully, hands up to show one empty, the other holding the apple.
The Shire’s ears perked, whickering excitedly, and Arthur beamed - “See boy? We’re friends, ain’t we?”
And maybe it was his voice that startled him, or maybe he just stepped wrong. Or maybe his hand swayed, or maybe it was nothing at all. But the stallion screamed, and reared, and Arthur tried to jump back but wasn’t quite fast enough.
The horse came down hard, skimming one of his massive hooves almost square against the middle of Arthur’s chest, knocking him clear off of his feet.
“Shit, Arthur!”
As he always did when Arthur was fussing with the damn thing, Hosea had been keeping a close eye on them, and he was on his feet before Arthur even hit the ground.
“You alright son?”
Arthur had been kicked before - it was just part of working with horses. But he always got back up. Sure, it took him longer as he got older, not able to take a kick as well as he used to, but he was usually at least getting up by the time Hosea got to him.
The Shire was eating the dropped apple, but Arthur still hadn’t gotten up.
“Arthur!”
Unease curdled low in his stomach, and he broke into a run, dropping to his knees at Arthur’s side.
Arthur stared back at him, an expression of dull surprise on his face, his chest unmoving.