Put a bullet in that one and save us the transport fee. Benoit Martucci sneered, kicking the rusted bars of chute number four. The sorrel mare inside lunged, teeth bared, slamming her thousand-pound frame against the steel. The crowd flinched, but Laszlo Szismondy just stepped closer. He didn’t see a monster.
He saw a survivor driven mad by a whip. “I’ll give you $500.” Laszlo’s voice cut through the auctioneer’s chatter, low and unyielding. Benoit laughed, a sound like grinding stones. “You’re buying your own funeral, Szismondy.” The Billings Livestock Commission in Montana smelled of stale coffee, sweet feed, and the sharp, undeniable metallic tang of fear.
It was a cold Tuesday in November, the kind of day where the frost clung stubbornly to the steel pipe fencing and men spoke in breathless plumes of white vapor. Above the chaotic din of lowing cattle and restless hooves, the rapid-fire chant of auctioneer Virginia Page echoed through the PA system.
Virginia was a tough woman who had seen every tragedy the western livestock world had to offer, but even her seasoned rhythm faltered when chute number four groaned open. A collective gasp swept through the aluminum bleachers. The horse that bolted into the ring wasn’t just wild. She was a creature consumed by a furious, blinding terror.
She was a sorrel mare, standing a shade under 16 hands. Though her ribs showed like a washboard through a winter coat dull with malnutrition and sweat, but it wasn’t her gaunt frame that caught the eye. It was the violence in her movement. She reared, striking out at the invisible demons in the air, her hooves connecting with the heavy iron rails of the auction ring with a bone-jarring clang.
White lather formed around her neck and flanks. Her eyes, rimmed in white, were wide pools of absolute panic. Sitting in the front row, his muddy Justin boots propped against the railing, was Benoit Martucci. He wore a custom-shaped Stetson and a sneer that seemed permanently etched into his tanned, leathery face.
Benoit was a man of immense wealth and zero conscience, running one of the largest quarter horse syndicates in Wyoming. He made his fortune buying, breaking, and often discarding horses that didn’t fit his impossible, brutal standards. “Look at that worthless piece of meat.” Benoit spat, loud enough for the surrounding cowboys to hear.
“I bought her 3 months ago. Paid top dollar. broke two of my trainers’ ribs and nearly kicked a groom to death. She’s unfixable. Straight to the dog food plant with her.” Virginia Page adjusted her microphone, her face tight. “All right, folks, we have a spirited sorrel mare here. Sold as is. Great horse. Where do we start? Do I hear 200 for the meat man? 200?” No one moved.
The kill buyers leaned against the back walls, even they hesitant to load such a dangerous animal into their packed trailers. In the back row, shrouded in the shadows of the rafters, sat Lasse Cismondi. Lasse wasn’t a man who sought attention. His denim jacket was frayed at the cuffs, and his weathered face bore the lines of a man who had fought the elements in the Bitterroot Valley for 40 years, and was currently losing.
His ranch was heavily mortgaged, his herd was thinning, and his heart had been hollowed out by years of quiet grief. But as Lasse looked down at the arena, he didn’t see the monster Benoit described. He saw the scars. Even from 50 ft away, Lasse’s sharp eyes caught the faint parallel lines crisscrossing the mare’s hindquarters, the unmistakable, sickening signature of a heavy lunge whip used with malicious intent.
He saw the way she flinched when the ringman raised a harmless sorting stick. This horse wasn’t born a killer. She had been forged into one by human cruelty. When Benoit kicked the bars and demanded a bullet for her, something ancient and unyielding snapped into place within Lasse’s chest. He stood up, his tall frame uncoiling. He walked slowly down the aluminum steps.
His spurs chiming a quiet, rhythmic counterpoint to the mare’s frantic pacing. He approached the railing. The mare stopped suddenly, throwing her head up, nostrils flaring as she caught his scent. Lasse didn’t raise a hand. He didn’t make a sound. He simply looked at her, stripping away the noise of the auction, the harsh fluorescent lights, and the sneering crowd.
He looked straight into her wild, terrified eyes, offering a silent, impossible promise. For three agonizing seconds, the mare held his gaze. The frantic heaving of her sides slowed. “I’ll give you $500,” Lasse said, his voice carrying clearly over Virginia’s microphone. Benoit Martucci laughed his cruel, grinding laugh.
“You’re a fool, Sismondi, buying your own funeral. Don’t come crying to me when she caves your skull in. I don’t cry over other men’s mistakes, Martucci,” Lasse replied coldly, never taking his eyes off the horse. “Sold.” Virginia Page slammed her gavel down with a sharp crack. “May God have mercy on your fences, Lasse.
” Loading the mare was a localized, two-hour war of attrition. It took a reinforced steel alleyway, a heavy stock trailer, and the patience of a saint to finally get her secured. “Just use the damn hot shot, Sismondi,” one of the Billings yard hands yelled, his breath pluming in the freezing air as he waved a crackling electric prod.
Lasse had snatched the plastic rod from the man’s hand, his eyes dangerously flat, and threw it into the dirt. He absolutely refused to use a prod or a lip chain. Instead, he used a system of heavy wooden panels, moving them inch by grueling inch, gently but methodically shrinking her available space until she had nowhere to go but up the ramp and into the dark expanse of the trailer.
When the heavy metal door finally clanged shut, the entire rig shuddered under the force of a violent kick. Lasse leaned against the icy side panel of his rusted 2008 Ford F-350 dually, wiping a mixture of sweat and freezing rain from his brow. His hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from the sheer adrenaline of standing toe-to-toe with 500 kilos of raw, unbridled panic.
The drive over the Bozeman Pass was a treacherous crawl through a black ice purgatory. The winter weather had set in violently early, turning the winding mountain roads into slick ribbons of death. Lasse drove at a strained, white-knuckled 15 mph, hyper-aware of the shifting, volatile weight in the trailer behind him.
Every time the heavy truck hit a minor pothole or uneven grade, the trailer swayed, and he could hear the mare scrambling frantically, her iron-shod hooves slipping and sparking on the thick rubber mats. He cracked the rear sliding window of the truck cab, letting the bitter wind howl through just so she could hear him.
His voice was a steady, low rumble of reassurance cutting through the roar of the heater. “Easy now, girl. Easy.” Lasse murmured into the dark, the dashboard lights casting deep shadows across his weathered face. “The worst of it is over. Nobody’s got a whip in here. Just cold air and miles to go. You’re going somewhere safe.
He didn’t know if she understood, but he needed to fill the terrifying silence with something other than the memory of Benois’ grinding laugh. It was nearly midnight by the time the heavy tires crunched onto the long potholed gravel driveway of the Sismondi ranch in the Bitterroot Valley. The property was beautiful in a stark, melancholic way, framed by the jagged snow-capped peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains that loomed like dark teeth against the starless sky.
The old log barn leaned slightly to the east, a testament to decades of harsh prevailing winds, and the miles of lodgepole pine fencing needed desperate, expensive repair. Waiting for him under the harsh, buzzing yellow glow of the barn’s security light was Jamie Teixeira. Jamie was Los sole remaining ranch hand, a tough, wiry kid in his early 20s who had grown up hard on the Blackfeet reservation.
Jamie was loyal to a fault, practically family. But as he peered through the narrow metal slats of the stock trailer, the color completely drained from his face. The mare threw herself against the side of the trailer, the metallic boom echoing off the valley walls. “Boss,” Jamie whispered, taking a slow, involuntary step back as the mare lunged again, snapping her teeth at his passing shadow.
“Tell me you didn’t buy the devil. I heard what happened at Billings. Word travels fast on the wire. Martucci’s people are already laughing about it. Let them laugh, Jamie,” Los said, exhausted to his bones. He pulled a heavy, fleece-lined Weaver leather halter from his truck bed, its brass hardware clinking softly.
“She’s not the devil. She’s just a soul trapped in hell.” They backed the trailer up directly to the strongest folding stall in the barn, a 10 by 10 box made of thick rough-sawn 2-in oak planks that Lasse had reinforced himself years ago. They swung the trailer doors open, unlatched the stall gate, and quickly stepped back.
The mare exploded from the trailer like a bullet fired from a chamber. She didn’t walk. She scrambled wildly into the deep pine shavings of the stall, immediately spinning around to face the door, kicking out with devastating violence. The oak planks shuddered and groaned under the impact, dust raining down from the rafters.
The smell of fear, sweat, and ozone filled the barn aisle. Jamie swallowed hard, his eyes wide. “What do we do with her now, Lasse? You can’t even get a halter on her without losing an arm. She’s unfixable.” “Martucci was right. No such thing as unfixable,” Lasse muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper.
He walked into the tack room and dragged a battered wooden milking stool into the center of the cold barn aisle, placing it right outside her stall door. He grabbed an old thermos of black bitter coffee from the truck and sat down, pulling his collar up against the draft. “Go to bed, Jamie. It’s late, and we’ve got fences to mend tomorrow.
” “What are you going to do?” Jamie asked, lingering nervously. “I’m going to sit here,” Lasse said, pulling his worn Stetson down low over his eyes to block the glare of the overhead bulbs. “And I’m going to breathe. And when she finally figures out I’m not going to hit her, maybe we can start over.” For the next four nights, the barn aisle became Lasse’s entire world.
He barely slept, dozing only in short fitful bursts when exhaustion overcame him. He read dog-eared Louis L’Amour paperbacks out loud, his voice an unwavering rhythmic drone, so she would get used to the cadence of his presence. He tossed flakes of premium sweet-smelling alfalfa over the top wall without ever looking directly at her, never demanding eye contact, never pushing into her space.
For the first 2 days, she paced like a caged tiger, her ears pinned flat. By day 3, her coat finally stopped sweating. By the morning of the 5th day, the violent rhythmic kicking against the oak planks finally stopped, and by the 7th day, as Lasso sat quietly reading, he felt a sudden shift in the air. He lowered his book.
She stood silently at the stall door, her nose mere inches from Lasso’s shoulder, exhaling a soft, warm breath against his neck. Moving with agonizing slowness, Lasso reached up and brushed a single calloused finger against her velvet muzzle. She flinched, a full-body tremor, but she didn’t run away. “There you are,” Lasso whispered into the quiet barn.
“Let’s see what’s underneath all that anger, girl.” On the morning of the second week, a dust-covered Toyota Tacoma rattled into the ranch driveway. Out stepped Florina Roscoch, the most highly regarded equine veterinarian in western Montana. Florina was a no-nonsense woman with hands like steel and a heart that bled for broken animals.
She had known Lasso for decades, and when he called her saying he needed an evaluation on a difficult rescue, she cleared her morning schedule. Florina stood outside the oak stall watching Lasso quietly slip a simple rope halter over the mare’s head. The horse was tense, trembling slightly, but she allowed Lasso to lead her out into the center aisle.
“Jesus, Lasso,” Florina breathed. Her professional detachment slipping as she took in the mare’s condition under the bright barn lights. Who did this to her? Benoit Martucci claims she was wild. Claims she hurt his trainers, Lasse said. His jaw tightening as he held the lead rope with soft, loose fingers. Florina pulled on her latex gloves and approached slowly, murmuring in a low, soothing tone.
The mare rolled her eyes but stood her ground. Anchored by Lasse’s calm presence, Florina ran her hands expertly over the horse’s neck, down her withers, and along her ribs. Martucci is a liar, Florina said. Her voice dropping to a furious whisper. She parted the winter coat along the mare’s left flank. Look at this.
These are spur tracks. Deep ones. Someone rode her with locked rowels and just tore her to shreds. And here, she pointed to the back of the mare’s knees. Wire burns. Old ones, but healed badly. Someone tied her up short and beat her when she pulled back. Lasse closed his eyes. A wave of cold rage washing over him.
Can she be salvaged, Florina? Physically? Yes. A lot of good feed, maybe some chiropractic work for the tension in her poll. Mentally? Florina sighed, stepping back. That’s up to you. But Lasse, there’s something else. Florina pulled a small wand-like device from her medical bag, a universal microchip scanner.
It’s standard procedure now. Let’s see if she’s ever been registered. She ran the wand along the left side of the mare’s thick crest. A sharp beep echoed in the barn. Florina looked at the digital readout on the scanner, her brow furrowing. She pulled her phone from her pocket and typed the 15-digit number into a national registry database.
A moment later, Florina’s face drained of color. “Lasse,” she said, showing him the screen. “This horse isn’t a grade mare. Her registered name is Crimson Ember, and her owner of record isn’t Benoit Martucci.” Lasse squinted at the small screen. “Emanuel Garretts, the Dutch show jumping heiress?” “Yes,” Florina said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Emanuel Garretts reported this mare stolen from her private facility in Colorado over 2 years ago. There was a massive insurance payout. It was in all the trade magazines. The horse was valued at nearly half a million dollars. They thought cartels took her across the border.” Lasse stared at the mare Ember.
The pieces fell together with sickening clarity. Benoit Martucci hadn’t bought a wild horse. He had acquired a stolen, highly valuable warmblood cross, likely through the black market. When he couldn’t break her spirit to use her for his underground, high stakes breeding or illegal bucking rings without exposing her identity, he tried to destroy her, finally dumping her at a kill pen to erase the evidence forever.
If Martucci finds out she has a chip, Jamie, who had been listening from the tack room door, stepped into the light. “If he finds out you know, he won’t find out from me,” Florina said fiercely. “But Lasse, this is dangerous. Martucci is a snake, and he’s got politicians and judges in his pocket. If he realizes the horse he dumped is a half million dollar piece of evidence tying him to grand larceny, he won’t just come for the horse.
He’ll come for you.” Lasse ran his hand along Ember’s scarred neck. The mare lowered her head, resting her heavy chin against his chest. “Let him come,” Lasse said softly. “News travels faster than a prairie fire in the Montana horse community. It only took 3 weeks for whispers to reach Benoit Martucci in Wyoming.
The whispers said that Lascaux’s Mondi hadn’t been killed by the demon mare. Instead, rumors claimed the broke washed up cowboy was riding her out in the Bitterroot. And that the horse moved with the grace of a European dressage champion. Benoit was a man of supreme arrogance, but he wasn’t stupid. He remembered the mare’s distinct conformation.
He remembered where he got her, and suddenly the horrifying realization struck him. He had forgotten to scan her for a microchip before he dumped her at the auction. If Cismondi had a vet out to the ranch, his entire empire of insurance fraud and horse theft could come crashing down. On a freezing Tuesday afternoon, Lascaux was in the round pen working Ember.
He was using a technique he had learned decades ago. No saddle, no bridle, just a simple leather cord around her neck. He moved his body, and the horse mirrored him, turning on her haunches, stopping on a dime. The bond between them was becoming something spiritual, a silent language built on mutual respect and shared survival.
The crunch of tires on gravel broke the peace. Three black lifted Chevy Suburbans rolled up to the ranch house. Lascaux signaled Ember to halt. He patted her neck, slipped a halter on her, and tied her to the rail before walking out to the driveway. Jamie emerged from the barn, quietly slipping a heavy farrier’s rasp into his gloved hand.
Benoit Martucci stepped out of the lead vehicle. He was flanked by two massive men wearing heavy coats that failed to hide the bulk of shoulder holsters. Benoit looked around the failing ranch with a look of supreme disgust. Cismondi. Benoit smiled, though it didn’t reach his cold eyes. “I see you’re still alive. And the property hasn’t fallen in completely.
You’re trespassing, Martucci. Lassa said, stopping 10 ft away. State your business and get off my land. My business is that mare. Benoit said, pointing a gloved finger toward the round pen. I made a mistake at the auction. I was acting in haste. I’ve decided I want her back. I’ll give you $5,000. 10 times what you paid.
A generous offer for a man drowning in debt. She’s not for sale, Lassa said. Benoit’s smile vanished. You don’t understand, Sismondi. I’m not asking. He pulled a thick manila folder from his coat. I bought the note on this ranch last week from Western Heritage Bank, through a subsidiary, of course. You’re 3 months behind on your mortgage.
I can foreclose on this dirt patch tomorrow. I’ll take the land, the equipment, and the livestock. Including the mare. Jamie took a step forward, raising the iron rasp. But Lassa threw an arm out to stop him. Lassa’s mind raced. He needed time. He needed to get in touch with Emmanuel Garretts and the federal authorities.
But if Benoit forced a foreclosure tomorrow, the horse would disappear forever. You want her that bad? Lassa asked, his voice dead calm. I want what’s mine, Benoit hissed. The Montana Heritage Versatility Trial is in Missoula in 3 weeks, Lassa said. The purse is $50,000. But more importantly, it’s a gentleman’s bet.
You enter your best horse, I’ll enter the mare. If you beat me, I’ll sign the deed to the ranch and the horse over to you, free and clear. No legal battle. But if I win, you forgive the debt, tear up the note, and you never set foot in the Bitterroot again. Benoit stared at him. The sheer audacity of the challenge caught him off guard.
The versatility trial was a brutal, grueling three-part competition, cattle cutting, a complex reining pattern, and a terrifying obstacle course. Benoit always won. He had million-dollar trainers and chemically enhanced quarter horses. Lasse had a traumatized kill pen rescue. Benoit’s arrogance flared. The thought of humiliating Lasse in front of the entire state, taking his ranch, and legally securing the evidence horse was too sweet to pass up. “You have a deal, old man.
” Benoit sneered. “Enjoy your last 3 weeks on this dirt.” With the deadline looming, Lasse knew he needed help. Love and patience had healed Ember’s mind. But the versatility trial required absolute precision and athletic explosion. Lasse made a phone call to the only person he trusted with this task, Esther Hershkowitz.
Esther was a legend in the horse world, an 80-year-old Dutch horsewoman who had moved to Montana decades ago. She was a master of vaquero style horsemanship and classical dressage. She arrived the next day, a tiny, fiercely sharp woman leaning on a silver-handled cane. For 3 weeks, the Sismondi ranch transformed into an intense training ground.
Esther sat on the fence line shouting corrections in her thick accent. “No, Lasse. You pull with your hands, you lose her mind. Ride from your seat. Speak to her with your weight. She is a creature of energy, not a machine.” Esther recognized Ember’s lineage immediately. “This horse, she has the blood of the old European jumpers.” Esther marveled one evening as Ember floated over a makeshift obstacle course, her stride impossibly long and smooth.
“But she has the heart of a mustang. Martucci tried to break her because he could not understand her. She is a queen, Lasse. Treat her as such. The training was grueling. They worked cattle in the morning, teaching Ember to read a cow’s movements. Because of her trauma, Lasse refused to use a harsh bit in her mouth. He rode her in a simple leather bosal.
To compete in the highest levels of cutting and reining without a bit was considered insane by modern standards. But Ember responded to the freedom. Without the pain in her mouth, her natural athleticism blossomed. She was lightning fast, anticipating Lasse’s thoughts before he even shifted his weight.
In the quiet hours of the night, Lasse would sit in her stall, brushing her coat until it shone like polished mahogany. He whispered to her, telling her about his late wife, about his failures, about his fear of losing the ranch, and Ember would listen, wrapping her long neck around him in a protective embrace. They were two broken things that had somehow forged each other into steel.
Meanwhile, Florina Roscoe had not been idle. Operating behind the scenes, she had contacted Emmanuel Garretts in Europe and the FBI’s agricultural crime unit. They were building an airtight case, but they needed Benoit Martucci to publicly claim ownership or display connection to the horse to spring the trap. The competition in Missoula would be the perfect stage.
The Missoula fairgrounds were electric. The Montana Heritage Versatility Trial drew thousands of spectators, wealthy owners, and rough-hewn cowboys. The air was thick with the smell of frying dough, stale beer, and sweat. When Lasse rode Ember into the warm-up arena, a hush fell over the crowd. The mare, once a walking skeleton at the Billings auction, was a vision of equine perfection.
Her sorrel coat gleamed. Her muscles rippled with suppressed power, and her eyes, once wild with terror, were calm, focused, and locked onto her rider. Lasse sat tall, his frayed jacket replaced with a clean white shirt, looking every bit the master horseman he was. Benoit Martucci was there, riding a massive, heavily muscled black stallion named Midnight Ruin.
The stallion was sweating profusely, his eyes darting, fighting the heavy, long-shanked curb bit in his mouth. Benoit’s spurs were already digging into the horse’s ribs. “She looks pretty, Sismondi,” Benoit sneered as they passed each other. “But pretty doesn’t cut cows. Have your pen ready to sign the deed.” The competition began.
In the cattle-cutting phase, Benoit rode with aggressive brutality, hauling his stallion around by the face. He scored high, but the crowd murmured at the harshness of the ride. Then came Lasse and Ember. Lasse dropped his hand, giving Ember complete slack on the reins. The mare took over. She dropped low to the ground, her chest skimming the dirt, mirroring the calf with feline grace.
She anticipated every faint, every dodge, moving with explosive power but total silence. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. They had never seen a horse work a cow with such joyful ferocity. The reining pattern was next. Benoit pushed his stallion too hard. In the sliding stop, the stallion rebelled against the pain of the bit, throwing his head and losing his footing, resulting in a severe penalty.
Lasse and Ember glided through the pattern like water. Her spins were a blur, her lead changes invisible, and her sliding stop was 30 ft of perfectly balanced power, kicking a wall of dirt into the air. Going into the final event, Lasse and Benoit were tied for the lead. The course included water crossings, a wooden bridge, and a terrifying wall of fire, a jump over a trough of burning logs.
Benoit went first. Furious at his earlier mistake, he kicked the black stallion viciously, driving him toward the fire jump. The stallion, terrified and in pain, refused the jump. Slamming on the brakes, Benoit roared in anger, raising his heavy leather quirt, and struck the horse between the ears.
It was the breaking point. The massive stallion didn’t cower. He exploded. With a scream of rage, the stallion reared straight up, towering over the arena. Benoit lost his balance, slipping backwards. As the horse came down, it bucked violently, launching Benoit Martucci through the air. Benoit hit the hard-packed dirt with a sickening crunch, his shoulder dislocating upon impact.
The stallion bolted out of the arena, leaving Benoit groveling in the dust, humiliated and screaming in pain. The crowd was dead silent. Karma had collected its debt. Lasse rode Ember to the starting line. He didn’t use spurs. He didn’t use a whip. He simply leaned forward and whispered, “Let’s go home, girl.
” Ember flew over the course. She didn’t hesitate at the water. She marched over the wooden bridge like a queen. And when they approached the fire jump, Lasse felt her gather her immense power beneath him. She launched into the air, soaring over the flames with a foot to spare, landing softly on the other side. The buzzer sounded.
The stadium erupted in a standing ovation that shook the bleachers. They had won. Lasse didn’t even go to the judges’ stand to collect the giant $50,000 check. As he rode Ember out the back gate of the arena, he was met by a swarm of federal agents, Florina Roskosh, and a weeping woman speaking rapid French-accented English.
Emmanuel Jarrets threw her arms around Ember’s neck, burying her face in the mare’s mane. “My beautiful girl,” she cried, “I thought you were dead.” As paramedics loaded a handcuffed Benoit Martucci into an ambulance under arrest for grand larceny, insurance fraud, and extortion, Lasse dismounted and handed the lead rope to Emmanuel.
“She’s yours,” Lasse said, his voice thick with emotion. “She always was.” Emmanuel looked up at the weathered cowboy, tears streaming down her face. She looked at the cheap rope halter, the lack of a bit, and the absolute peace radiating from the horse. She knew what Martucci had done. She knew what this man had risked to save her. “No, Mr.
Sismondi,” Emmanuel said softly, pushing the rope back into his calloused hands. “She was mine in a past life, but she is yours in this one. You saved her soul. I will sign the papers tomorrow.” And she reached into her designer bag, pulling out the massive first place check that the officials had just handed her.
“I believe this 50,000 belongs to the winner, and I am adding a zero to it as a reward for finding her.” Lasse stood frozen under the Montana sky, the weight of the last few years suddenly lifting from his shoulders. His ranch was saved. His debts were cleared. Months later, spring returned to the Bitterroot Valley. The snow melted, giving way to seas of emerald green grass.
Lasse Sismondi stood on the porch of his freshly painted farmhouse holding a mug of coffee. Out in the pasture, Jamie Teixeira was fixing the final stretch of lodgepole fencing and grazing peacefully in the morning sun, her coat shining like spun copper, was Ember. She raised her head, locking eyes with Lasse across the distance.
She offered a soft whinny that carried on the breeze. Lasse tipped his hat to her, a man finally at peace, standing beside the unfixable mare who had fixed him. Sometimes, the deepest scars hide the most profound strength, waiting only for someone brave enough to offer a gentle hand instead of a heavy whip.
Trust is not broken overnight, and it cannot be rebuilt in a day. But, the bond forged in the fires of redemption is unbreakable. Man and beast, we all carry our pasts, but we do not have to let those shadows dictate our horizons. If this gritty story of redemption, hard-won karma, and the unspoken language between a cowboy and his horse touched your heart, please hit that like button.
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