"You two did good. Real good." He looked between us with that knowing expression again. "Teamwork."
"Yeah," I said, suddenly very aware of how Beau was looking at me—intense and warm and proud. "Teamwork."
Once Pops had Phoenix in her stall, Beau dismounted and stood there, slightly out of breath, hair messed up from the branches, shirt torn at the shoulder.
"That was insane," he said.
"That was a normal Friday."
"Your normal is insane." He stepped closer, and there was something in his eyes—adrenaline, maybe, or relief, or the same thing I was feeling. "You were incredible out there, just like when you helped Daisy last time."
"I was doing my job."
"You were fearless." Closer still, until I had to tilt my head back to look at him. "And I know you said you need to think, but Winnie—"
"Beau—"
"I would do anything just to taste you. Just thought you should know."
The words hung in the air between us, too big and too real and too much.
"You don't mean that," I whispered.
"I do. Have been for weeks." His hand came up, hovering near my face like he wanted to touch but was waiting for permission. "And I know I'm leaving. I know this is temporary. But I'd rather have temporary with you than nothing at all."
My heart was pounding harder than it had during the chase. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably."
"You're leaving at the end of the summer."
"I know."
"I don't do temporary."
"Maybe you could. Just this once."
I looked at him—really looked at him. At the boy who'd shown up three weeks ago scared of roosters and manual labor, who'd become someone who could ride double through the woods without panicking, who looked at me like I was something precious.
"I need to think," I said again, but this time it sounded less like a refusal and more like a maybe.
"Okay." He stepped back, giving me space. "I've been told I was very patient."
Then he walked away, leaving me standing in the barn with my heart racing and my walls crumbling faster than I could rebuild them.
BEAU
Where love lives
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
18:30
"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken."
- William Shakespeare
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