“I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together,” I say before pressing a kiss to her temple, just as we skirt around some tall brush, and we’re home free. I’d love to ride the rest of the way home with her safely tucked against my chest, but I’m afraid it’ll only make thingsthat muchharder when I want to get her on a horse again. “You feel ready to ride by yourself?”
There’s immediate rigidity where a second ago she was loose and free.
I add, “I’ll give you this horse. I promise she’s as bombproof as they come. And I’ll be right next to you.”
With a hefty exhale, she agrees. And seconds later, I’m mounted on Sandy, or whatever the fuck his name actually is. I look over at Blair, gauging her reaction. Definitely tense, but she’s still breathing—albeit each breath seems calculated.
“Okay, I’m good,” she says, giving a tiny nudge of her heel to get the horse moving underneath her. “I’m good,” she quietly repeats to herself.
When I give my horse a nudge, he stomps his front hoof in defiance. When I give a tiny spur prompt, he goes from zero to one hundred in about two seconds. Little fucker thinks he’s a bronc or something.
“Oh, you fucking bastard, whatever your goddamn nameis.” I tighten the reins in, bringing him to a halt that he’s making it clear he’s unhappy about.
“His name’s Sandy,” Blair offers, suddenly looking a lot further from a panic attack than she was a minute ago. In fact, she has a teasing smile that makes this entire shitshow feel worthwhile.
“His name’s about to be glue,” I reply.
“Hey, that’s not nice. He was a very good boy to me for our entire ride.”
My head’s on a swivel as I make Sandy-or-whatever walk in a wide circle—clockwise, then counterclockwise. I’m no horse trainer, like Jackson is, but I subscribe to the belief offuck around and find out. And this gelding is about to find out, if he doesn’t want to follow my lead.
“Wanna trade?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Come on.” Blair gestures toward the trail with a tip of her head. “Or do I need to teach you how to ride a horse? I know you’re used to getting bucked off, not staying on.”
“Hilarious.” I stick out my tongue at her. This time Sandy makes a wise choice by listening to my cues and starting toward the trail without issue.
True to my word, I ride so close I’m able to reach out and give her thigh an empathetic squeeze from time to time. The journey may be slow, but that gives us time to talk. About then, and about now. There’s reminiscing and laughter. And slowly but surely, Blair eases into the saddle with the exuberant confidence she had at sixteen.
When we crest the hillside, staring down the final, steep descent to the barn, I’m genuinely sad it’s over. “We should do this more often. Like…every day.”
“Every day?” Her sweet laugh carries over the wildflower-painted mountain. “I don’t know how I’ll find the time to do that. But maybe weekly. Aside from my little moment of panic, it’s nice to be on a horse again…and even better with you here.”
“I shouldn’t have let you go out alone today. Count on me being there for every ride from now on.” The warm breeze that’s been following me this entire time encircles us again. Call it crazy, but I’m starting to think it’s Mom. “I’ll always be here, Bear.”
Blair
“I think I want to try running barrels,” I say as Denver and I ride side by side along the ranch road.
In the two weeks since the day I scared the crap out of myself in the storm, we’ve ridden together four times. It’s brought me more joy than anything has in years, and I’m ready to feel the rush of ecstasy I’ve only experienced barrel racing—the invincible, weightless air in my lungs and galloping beat in my chest.
“Yeah?” He veers left, toward the riding arena, instead of the barn. “Let’s do it, Blair Bear.”
My heart rattles against my sternum, begging to be set free, adrenaline coursing through my veins as Denver shuts the arena gate behind me. I’m not anticipating it being a smooth ride, given I’m out of practice and this horse has likely never seen barrels in its life.
We take the barrels easy the first time, curving around the last section of the clover pattern and bringing it on home to Denver, who’s leaning on the fence rail. For a moment, I genuinely expect to see Lucy Wells standing next to him, cheering and jumping up and down. My eyes burn harder than my chest. I sniffle back the urge to cry and rake a hand through my windswept hair.
I was right. I needed this.
“Baby, you’re a natural,” Denver calls out. “And I fucking love you.”
Pawing at the strands of hair strewn across my face, I look up at the vibrant blue sky and let the sun soak my bare skin. Once my breathing is mostly normal, I set up to go again.
Faster.
Without a second thought, my heels strike the gelding’s sides and we charge toward the barrel, rounding the first without question.
On the next, my focus has already shifted to barrel three, and there’s a roller-coaster-like drop in the pit of my stomach when the horse’s feet slip. He tries to catch it, and I ease up on the reins, leaning left as if my body weight will be enough to keep us from going over.
