Now, it wasoff.
It’s always about the money with you, no?
Even weeks later, the wrongness of those words—the accusation within—filled him with a sort of umbrage.
Simply, it wasn’t true.
Yet a belief she held—firmly—about him.
He could ask her, he supposed. But that would mean engaging with her—entangling himself further and bringing the past into the present, instead of letting it lie.
Better to keep himself well wide of those brambles.
Closer she and her horse ventured, so he could now make out the details of her face as she spoke into her mount’s ear.
There was her smile.
There was her joy.
He’d never thought to see it again.
Once, she’d bandied it about so freely that anyone within range couldn’t help but be infected by it.
With a subtle shift and tug of the reins, she guided her horse into the water. Water up to its knees, the animal took to it, her laughter rising above the waves.
Bran found a smile perched upon his mouth, even as a sharp blade of envy cut through him. To ride, with such joy and utterabandonwas forever lost to him.
It was true.
He no longer rode.
But not for the reason he gave Artemis.
The reason was one he couldn’t pin down or express aloud, but it existed solid and heavy inside him. A reason that felt shameful—unmanly. And every time he thought about the feeling, or worse, allowed it to assail him, he felt unmanned anew.
He’d been a soldier.
He’d been in actual harm’s way more times than he could count, yet this feeling had the power to fell him with swifter accuracy than any sword or cannon he’d ever encountered.
Better to avoid what brought on the feeling.
Horses.
Specifically, the riding of them.
Every time he considered it, clammy sweat beaded across his skin. Once, he’d pushed through the feeling far enough to place his foot into a stirrup. The next instant, it had felt as if a vise were squeezing his lungs, refusing to let him draw breath, and his heart pounded in his chest and his head went light.
So, he didn’t ride.
But now, watching Artemis, he felt the enormity of the loss.
How small that feeling—and the avoidance of it—had made his life.
After a few minutes, Artemis guided her horse out of the water and continued along the shoreline—notaway, buttowardhim.
Bran pushed to a seat, the muscles of his stomach contracting with the effort, and reached for his shirt. As he shook off the sand and slipped the garment over his head, he felt her gaze raking over him. Ignoring the feeling of exposure, he grabbed a boot and began yanking it on.
Once she’d come within twenty yards, she slid off her mount—she’d been riding astride—and began readjusting the blanket across the horse’s back. It was obvious. She and Bran were about to have a conversation.
