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not safe, Caleb,” she whispered. “You’re just hiding.”
The turning point happened with Samuel. The four-year-old was traumatized, rarely speaking, clinging to Martha’s skirt.
I was in the barn, shoeing a mare, when I felt eyes on me. Samuel stood by the door, clutching a ragged stuffed bear.
“Hey there,” I said softly. “You like horses?”
No answer.
“This continue reading …
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