He laughs, a real one this time, not the sharp-edged sarcasm he usually throws around. “Nah. I figured it’s time.”
“For what?”
His grin turns boyish. “Your first ride.”
I blink. “I thought we agreed I wasn’t?—”
“We didn’t agree on anything,” he says, tossing me a helmet from the tack shelf. “You just made excuses.”
I catch it on instinct, almost dropping it. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s why I’m here, genius.”
He’s already striding toward the paddock before I can argue, whistling for one of the hands to bring a saddled horse around. I linger at the barn door, part of me rooted in place with nerves. It’s not the horse I’m scared of— it's falling. Of losing control. Of proving every one of their smug little bets right.
“Come on, Peyton,” Pace calls, patting the horse’s shoulder. “She’s a sweetheart. Old Lady May. Calm as a Sunday morning.”
I glance at the mare, a tall, chestnut with wide brown eyes that watch me with passive curiosity. She does look… sweet. Still, my stomach knots as I step closer.
Pace’s voice gentles. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to get on.”
I slide the helmet on, my fingers trembling a little as I fasten the strap. He nods in approval but doesn’t say anything more as he offers his hand to help me into the saddle. I hesitate. He notices.
“You’ve done scarier things,” he murmurs low, only for me. “You’ve survived worse.”
The words hit deeper than they should. Because he’s not wrong.
I nod once, grip his hand tight, and let him boost me into the saddle.
The moment I settle in, my heart jumps, but the mare doesn’t move. She stands still, patient, like she knows I’m not sure yet. Pace adjusts the stirrups for me, then looks up with a crooked smile.
“There. Easy. Now hold the reins like this…” He demonstrates, guiding my hands. “Loosen up. She’s not gonna throw you.”
I breathe in. Deep. Slow. The leather reins are warm from the sun, the mare shifting gently beneath me. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.
Pace clicks his tongue and starts walking beside us, hand on the lead rope. “You’re doing fine.”
A gust of wind carries the scent of sun-baked earth and hay. The mare’s ears twitch. I grip tighter but Pace shakes his head. “Loosen up. Trust her.”
We walk the fence line, and I don’t fall. I don’t panic. The sky is wide and blue and so open it makes my chest ache.
“See?” he says after a few minutes. “Told you she was a sweetheart.”
I don’t answer. Because I’m too busy realizing something.
I feel free.
“See?” Pace says after a few minutes, his voice warm with approval. “Told you she was a sweetheart.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Not when something unfamiliar and sharp is rising in my chest, threading through my ribs like light cracking through a boarded-up window.
For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, I don’t feel like I’m running. I don’t feel like I’m hiding behind locked doors and false smiles and a past I can’t escape.
I feel free.
The mare moves beneath me with a steady rhythm, her hooves a soft, comforting beat against the dirt. My confidence builds with each step, my body slowly syncing with hers, like we’re speaking a silent language I never knew I could understand.
“Now I want you to squeeze your legs a little tighter and cluck her on,” Pace says, nodding to the open stretch ahead. “That’ll get her moving. Let your body follow her lead. If you feel yourself getting off balance, don’t panic—keep the reins steady and grab the front of the saddle.”
