We’d started at dawn with the usual grind—mucking stalls that seemed to refill themselves by magic, hauling fifty-pound feed bags until my shoulders screamed, and repairing a section of the north fence where a couple of cows had decided to stage a prison break. By noon, my tank top was plastered to my back, my braid was sticking to my neck, and Beau—"New Beau," as he insisted on calling himself—looked about as wrung out as a wet dishrag.
His pearl snap shirt was untucked and dusted with hay, his cowboy hat pushed back to reveal a stripe of pale skin and a sheen of sweat where the brim usually sat. He looked exhausted. He looked dirty.
He looked surprisingly good.
But it was Pops who had the knot of worry tightening in my stomach.
He’d been quieter than usual all morning, moving with a hitch in his step that he tried to disguise as a casual stroll. It wasn’t major—just a hesitation before lifting a bale, a sharp intake of breath when he bent to grab a tool. At sixty-eight, he was tougher than men half his age, but ranchlife didn’t forgive age; it exploited it. I’d caught him rubbing his left knee during lunch, his knuckles white as he massaged the joint under the table.
"You alright, Pops?" I’d asked, keeping my tone light as I handed him a glass of iced tea, trying not to let my eyes linger on his leg.
"Fine as frog hair, darlin'. Just an old ache flarin' up. Barometer’s probably changin'." He’d winked, but the corners of his eyes didn't crinkle the way they usually did.
I didn't push it. Pops would rather eat barbed wire than admit he was in pain. But as we wrapped up the afternoon chores—scattering the last of the chicken feed while Pickles watched us with murder in his beady eyes—I kept a hawk’s eye on him. When he stood up from the porch steps to head toward the barn, it took him an extra beat to straighten fully, his hand gripping the railing just a little too tight.
"Long day," Beau said, falling into step beside me. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, flashing a strip of tanned, dusty abs that I absolutely did not notice. I definitely didn't notice the way the sweat tracked down the center of his chest, either. "Think we're done?"
"Almost. Just need to turn the horses out in the west pasture." I glanced back at Pops, who was trailing a few feet behind, his gait uneven. "Hey, Pops? You wanna call it a day? Head in for a shower and a cold one?"
He caught up, clapping a hand on my shoulder—firmer than I’d expected, like he was proving a point. "Nah. Too nice an afternoon to waste inside staring at the walls. Tell you what—why don't y'all saddle up and take a ride? Clear your heads. I'll join if my knee behaves."
"A ride?" Beau perked up, though I caught the flicker of genuine terror behind his blue eyes. He’d been on horses before—mostly that guided, grandma-speed trot around the arena with me holding the reins like he was a toddler—but nothing real. No trails. No open land.
"You up for it, city boy?" I teased, elbowing his ribs. "Or you gonna chicken out and stay behind to gossip with Pickles?"
Maybe I was an asshole. But truthfully? I just wanted to see if he’d take the bait.
Beau straightened, adjusting his hat with a mock bravado that was almost charming. "Please. I've been practicing. Daisy and I have a spiritual connection. Lead the way, cowgirl."
Pops chuckled, the sound a little wheezier than usual, but genuine. "That's the spirit. I'll saddle up ol' Thunder if y'all go. Meet at the barn in ten. We'll head down to the creek—been a while since I've been down that way."
The creek.
My chest tightened just a fraction. That wasourcreek—mine and Beau’s, from those golden, hazy summers when we were kids. The place where we’d caught crawdads in mason jars, skipped stones until our shoulders ached, and sprawled on the bank watching clouds drift by while Nana packed us sandwiches we’d inevitably forget to eat because we were too busy being pirates or explorers.
I hadn't thought about it in years—not consciously, anyway—but finding those photos in the attic yesterday had brought it all rushing back in high definition. The creek had been our kingdom, our escape from adult conversations and chores we weren't tall enough to help with yet.
Ten minutes later, we were in the barn, the air thick with the scent of leather, sweet hay, and horses. I grabbed Bandit's bridle first—my boy, all sleek black muscle and that knowing glint in his dark eyes. At fourteen hands, he was a handful for most, energetic and whip-smart, but for me, he was home. I murmured to him as I saddled him up, buckling the girth strap with practiced flicks of my wrist.
"You ready to show 'em how it's done, buddy?"
Bandit snorted, tossing his head like he understood every word. To be honest, he probably did.
Beau was fumbling with Daisy's saddle nearby, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration as he tried to cinch it without pinching her.
"Easy, girl," he muttered to the mare, who looked bored out of her mind. "Don't make me look bad in front of the boss. I'll give you extra carrots. I'll import carrots from France."
"You're already looking bad," I said, leaning over the stall door with a grin. "Tilt the saddle back a smidge—there. Now pull the strap. Not that tight; she'll buck you off if you squeeze her ribs like a toothpaste tube."
"Got it. See? I'm a natural." He stepped back, admiring his work. The saddle sat slightly crooked, but Daisy didn't seem to mind, mostly because she was busy searching his pockets for the promised bribes.
Pops ambled in with Thunder's saddle over his shoulder, moving deliberate but steady. He didn't say anything about the knee, just got to work with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d done this ten thousand times. Thunder, a bay gelding with a lazy eye and an even lazier gait, stood patiently as Pops settled the blanket.
"Alright," Pops said, swinging up onto Thunder with a grunt that he tried to play off as a sigh of contentment. "Let's head out to the creek trail. Keep it easy—Beau, you good on Daisy?"
"Never better," Beau lied, hoisting himself into the saddle with more enthusiasm than grace. He wobbled for a second, gripping the horn like it was the only thing tethering him to earth, then settled in with a determined nod. "See? Soulmates."
I rolled my eyes but swung up onto Bandit smoothly, feeling that familiar surge of connection as he shifted under me. "Just follow my lead. Walk first. No heroics, Sterling."
