"Sure you do," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk. "Just move your hips like you’re... engaging in other rhythmic activities."
I choked on air. The only time I moved my hips like this was when I was thrusting into someone, preferably in a king-sized bed with high-thread-count sheets. But I wasn't about to admit that out loud to the woman currently holding my life in her hands.
"I’m ignoring that," I wheezed. "And for the record, people have been doing this for thousands of years? Voluntarily?"
"Yep. It’s called transportation."
"Well, people from thousands of years ago didn't have Uber. I was built for climate control and lumbar support, Winnie. Not... this."
She snorted. "Just breathe. Feel her movement and match it. Don't fight gravity."
I tried. I genuinely tried. But every step Daisy took sent a jolt through my spine that rattled my teeth. I was starting to understand why cowboys walked with that distinctive swagger. It wasn't confidence; it was structural damage.
"You’re grippin’ with your thighs too hard," Winnie critiqued, stopping the horse. She walked over and slapped my thigh—hard. "Relax this. Let your legs hang natural."
"If I relax, I’ll fall off!"
"No, you won’t. Daisy’s steady as a rock. Trust her."
"I don't even trust myself right now!"
"Beau." She looked up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her expression was patient, which somehow made me feel like an even bigger idiot. "You’re overthinkin’ it. Stop trying to control the horse. You can't control her. You just have to be with her."
Just be.
When was the last time I’d just existed? Without performing, without a camera in my face, without worrying about the angle or the lighting or the headline?
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I loosened my death grip on the reins. I forced my thighs—which were screaming in protest—to unclench.
And slowly—very, very slowly—something clicked.
As Daisy took another step, my body didn't fight it. I moved with her. The dip and sway of her gait stopped feeling like an assault and started feeling like a rhythm. It still hurt like hell, but it was a manageable hell.
"There you go," Winnie said softy. I looked down, and there was a flash of approval in her eyes that made something warm bloom in my chest, completely unrelated to the heat stroke. "See? You’re a natural."
"I don't know about natural," I muttered, adjusting my grip. "But I haven't fallen off yet, so I’m calling it a win."
"That’s the spirit."
***
By the time we finished the evening chores, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the Oklahoma sky in bruises of purple and gold. It was... majestic. I hated to admit it, but the view almost made up for the fact that my body felt like it had been dropped from a moving plane.
"Go shower," Winnie said as we reached the porch. "Dinner’s at six. You smell like a barn."
"It’s called musk," I argued weakly. "It’s masculine."
"It’s manure. Go."
I trudged upstairs, every step a reminder of the day's torture. My phone was on the nightstand where I’d abandoned it that morning—dead battery. I plugged it in, booted it up, and watched the notifications flood in.
Most of it was noise. Instagram tags, random DMs. But there were a string of texts from Z.
I flopped onto the bed—which felt like a cloud sent from heaven—and opened the thread.
Me:Survived Day 1. Everything hurts. I rode a horse and didn't die, though my future children might have been compromised. Also, there is a rooster named Pickles who has put a hit out on me.
Z:[Read 6:15 PM]Pickles? That’s a terrible name for an assassin.
