Captain Winky snorts. Stamps his foot.
I pull back, laughing. “Even the horse thinks you need to behave.”
“The horse can mind his own business.”
But he lets me go. Steps back. I finish with Captain Winky while he saddles Sargeant Potter—another of Tom’s dubious naming conventions inspired by the lightning-bolt scar on the horse’s forehead.
We lead them out into the afternoon light. The winter sun is past its peak, and the land stretches around us in every direction. Rolling pastures, the snow glittering like diamonds. The ridge rising on the horizon.
We ride out together. No particular destination. Just riding side by side. His horse matching mine stride for stride.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“That four months ago, I didn’t know how to sit on a horse without looking like I was about to die.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m riding in the snow, married to a cowboy, living on a ranch, fighting corporate land grabbers, and somehow”—I shake my head—“happy. I’m actually happy."
He reaches over. Takes my hand across the gap between horses. My fingers lace through his.
“Happy looks good on you.”
“It feels strange. Like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.”
He doesn’t rush to contradict me. He squeezes my hand instead. “Something always does.”
I study him, searching for the catch.
“But that’s not the point. Things go wrong whether you’re ready or not.” His eyes capture mine. “The difference is who you’re standing next to when they do.”
My smile stretches my cheeks until they ache. “Right answer, husband.”
He sighs dramatically and presses his free hand to his chest. “At last, the words I’ve been longing to hear. Next, you’ll be telling me my filing system was better than yours all along.”
I snort. “In your dreams, cowboy.”
We stop at the ridgeline.
The boundary between Stoneridge and Havenridge. Sutton land in both directions, stretching toward horizons I’ve come to love. The pastures lie white and quiet under fresh snow, and smoke curls from Havenridge’s chimney in the distance.
Somewhere beneath us lie minerals or whatever LandCorp wants badly enough to wage economic warfare.
But on the surface: snow-covered pasture, cattle moving slow and steady, and a future worth fighting for.
“This is what they want,” I say.
“They can’t have it.”
“No.” My voice is steel. “They can’t.”
I look at my husband, hair tousled by the wind, and something primal tightens in my chest.
Mine.
This man. This life. This land. Mine.
“What happens when the six months are up?” I ask.
