Stallion Sunset
"Horse breeder Salwa maintains prize Arabian bloodlines. When equine veterinarian Dr. O'Brien evaluates her stock, the stable ignites. 'Al khayl mir'at ashabuha' (الخيل مرآة أصحابها) - Horses mirror their owners."
"That stallion is overpriced."
Salwa stiffened. "That stallion has bloodlines tracing to the Prophet's own horses."
"Bloodlines don't make soundness." Dr. Liam O'Brien continued his examination. "His hocks are questionable."
"His hocks are perfect."
"Then you won't mind a second opinion."
He'd been hired to assess her entire stable—international buyers demanding independent verification. She'd opposed the intrusion from day one.
"Al khayl mir'at ashabuha," she said coldly. Horses mirror their owners.
"Then you must be stubborn and beautiful."
She blinked. "What?"
"Like this horse."
Weeks of evaluations revealed his competence. And something else.
"You actually respect them," Salwa admitted.
"They're magnificent creatures." He stroked a mare's nose. "Anyone who doesn't respect them shouldn't work with them."
"Most vets see profit."
"Most people miss what matters."
"Why horses?" she asked.
"Because in Ireland, my grandfather bred them." His voice softened. "Because they're the only pure thing left."
"You believe that?"
"Don't you?"
"You're not what I expected," Salwa admitted.
"Cold foreign examiner?"
"Someone who sees animals as numbers." She met his eyes. "You see souls."
"So do you." He stepped closer. "That's why you're special."
The first kiss happened in the stable, horses shuffling approval.
"This is unprofessional," Salwa breathed.
"The evaluation is complete." He kissed her again. "Now it's personal."
They made love in the tack room, leather and horse scent surrounding them.
"You're magnificent," Liam murmured.
"I smell like horse."
"Best smell there is."
His hands traced paths down her body like examining fine animal—appreciating, admiring. When he reached her center, Salwa gripped saddle racks.
"Aktar," she gasped. "Liam, aktar!"
"Easy girl." He grinned. "Thoroughbred response."
"Don't call me a horse."
"Compliment, actually."
She came surrounded by stable sounds, pleasure running through her. Liam rose, eyes dark.
"I need you," he confessed.
"Then ride." She pulled him close. "Show me your horsemanship."
He filled her with a groan, both moving in galloping rhythm.
"Tá grá agam duit," he gasped.
"Irish?"
"I love you."
They moved together like horse and rider—united, powerful.
"I'm close," he warned.
"Sawa." She held him tight. "Ma'aya."
They crested together, pleasure crossing the finish line. Liam held her as breathing steadied.
"Stay," she said.
"In Saudi?"
"With my horses." She smiled. "And me."
His practice relocated to her stable—her breeding, his veterinary, their combined passion.
"How do you work together?" clients asked.
"We share what matters," Salwa answered.
"The horses," Liam added. "And each other."
Their wedding featured a mounted procession—prize Arabians carrying them into married life.
"Al khayl mir'at ashabuha," Salwa repeated.
"And we," Liam added, "mirror each other."
Some partnerships, they'd learned, were bred—not trained. They emerged from shared values, mutual respect, and the willingness to see beauty in the same things.