I nod, trying to absorb the mental map. “Is that common?”
“Not really,” Phern says. “We haven’t had a spring flood this bad in years.”
Sam leans back in his chair, fingers drumming once against his mug before going still. “This storm was different. Hit harder than any of us expected.”
“Liam said it’s not over yet,” Phern says as she scrapes the last of the eggs into the sink. “More snow’s forecasted this afternoon.”
Sam pushes back from the table, already standing. “Then we should get out there before it comes down again.”
Phern nods toward me. “I told Charlotte she could wear Gwen’s old boots.”
If that name stirs anything in Sam, he doesn’t show it. No flicker of discomfort. No hesitation.
He just nods. “Good. I’ve got a coat you can wear, too, darlin’.”
We move into the mudroom together. The tile’s cold beneath my socks, and the scent of hay and leather seeps in from the back door. Phern hands me a pair of worn-in brown boots that scuffed but sturdy.
I snort under my breath as I step into them. They’re nothing like the pristine white boots with blue flowers I had on the other day. I wonder what happened to those. Didthey float away? Sink to the bottom of the creek? Get thrown into the trash?
Sam appears beside me, holding a thick winter coat. “Arms up,” he says gently.
I slide my arms through, and he helps button me in, his fingers brushing my chest as he fastens the top. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes something inside me flutter.
Then he places a stocking cap over my head like he’s done it a hundred times before. Not rushed. Not careful. Just easy. Familiar. Gloves are last.
Once we’re all geared up, we step outside.
And immediately, I shiver.
Even through layers, the cold slices through me, sharp and pure and so unlike anything I’ve ever known. But it’s not just the temperature. It’s the stillness. The weight of the snow muffling everything. The way the world seems to hold its breath beneath the sky.
My god.
It’s like stepping into a different world.
To the west, the mountains rise, bold and snow-covered, their jagged peaks swallowed by thick, low-hanging clouds that float like silent threats. The sun glints off the snow, turning the world into a field of diamonds. The trees—tall pines and firs—stand heavy with white, their branches drooping but strong, bending without breaking.
Nothing about this looks like April. Or California. Or even Oklahoma. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe this place doesn’t follow the rules I’m used to.
Maybe he doesn’t, either.
Sam glances over at me and smiles like he knows I’ve been watching him. Which I have. Without a word, he reaches out and takes my hand in his, grip steady as we trudge through the deep snow toward the barn.
My boots crunch softly with each step, the air sharp and clean in my lungs. Everything around us sparkles under the late morning sun, but the barn draws my attention like a postcard come to life. Red wood trimmed in stone, its sloped roof capped in a thick layer of snow. It’s adorable, honestly. Picturesque and rugged, like something out of a country daydream. And I really wish I had a cellphone to snap a picture.
As we get closer, I hear the soft stomping of hooves and a low snort from within—deep, earthy sounds that seem to vibrate in my chest.
“This is where we keep the family horses,” Sam says. “Bucking stock is kept separate.”
“Bucking stock?” I echo, blinking.
Behind me, Phern snorts. “What? Your research didn’t cover what we raise here?”
I laugh, sheepish. “Guess I missed that part.”
Sam squeezes my hand gently before letting go to open the barn doors. “We breed horses specifically for bronc riding.”
I follow him in, tucking my hands into my coat. “Still not following.”
