I nod, swallowing the knot of nerves building in my throat. My fingers tighten around the reins as I press my heels gently into her sides and make a soft clicking sound, like Pace showed me.
The mare responds instantly, her gait shifting into something quicker, livelier. The change jolts me at first—I feel my weight tip to one side—but I don’t fall. I don’t freeze. I grip the saddle horn, steady myself, and let my body adjust to the new rhythm. The movement is unfamiliar but not frightening. Not anymore.
“Good job,” Pace calls out, pride clear in his voice. “Look at you, riding like a natural.”
I circle the corral, the breeze tugging strands of hair loose from my braid, the sun warm on my face. For a second, I let myself believe I belong here.
Then I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye—John.
He’s leaning on the fence, arms crossed over the top rail, his face unreadable but his eyes cold and sharp, like he’s dissecting every move I make. Judging. Waiting for me to fail.
I force my gaze past him, chin lifting a little higher. My spine straightens. The temptation to flinch or shrink away is strong, but I push it down.
He may have passed along his blood, but he doesn’t get to judge me for the life I’ve been forced to live. I wasn’t pampered or spoiled. I’ve worked for everything, stowing away money so my mother couldn’t spend it on her habit.
I learned how to navigate chaos without falling apart. I learned how to survive in a house that never felt like a home.
I breathe in again, the air dry and full of dust and sunlight. It scratches a little in my lungs, but it feels clean. Real. Not like the smoke and lies I grew up choking on.
The mare continues her lap, ears flicking every time I shift my weight. My movements are still clumsy, but I feel steadier now, more in control. I glance over and catch Pace watching me, his grin still stretched wide across his face. Pride shines in his eyes. Something I’m not used to people feeling when it comes to me.
“You’ve got good balance,” he calls. “Give her another cluck, see if she’ll trot.”
A flicker of hesitation rises, but I chase it away with a breath. I click my tongue again and apply a gentle squeeze with my legs. The mare perks up, then eases into a light trot. The new rhythm bounces me a little, but I tighten my core, keeping my hands steady like Pace showed me.
It’s rough at first, the jolt of each step rattling through my spine. But soon, I start to find the rhythm again, letting the mare’s movements guide me. My body sways with hers, not against. I stop fighting the motion and start riding with it.
I’m doing it.
A quiet laugh escapes my lips, more breath than sound, but real all the same.
I can feel the tension in my shoulders finally begin to uncoil. There’s still dirt on my face and sweat sticking my shirt to my back, but right now I don’t care. I feel strong. I feel capable. Notbecause anyone handed me something, but because I’m earning this moment, one careful movement at a time.
Behind me, I hear John’s boots scuff against the fence post. He shifts position, but I don’t turn to look. I don’t need to see the expression on his face. Whether he’s disappointed or indifferent doesn’t matter anymore.
I won’t let my life here be defined by his acceptance.
I never needed my mother’s, and I sure as hell don’t need his.
The mare slows back into a walk, and I let her. Pace nods from across the corral, his approval quiet but unmistakable.
“You’re a natural,” he says again, and this time it doesn’t sound like teasing. It sounds like truth.
A warmth flickers in my chest. Not the fiery heat of anger or shame I’ve grown so used to, but something gentler. Something like pride.
And for the first time since I stepped onto this ranch, I start to believe I might one day have a place here. Not because they feel obligated to keep me. But because I’ve earned it.
9
The barn doorsare wide open, sunlight pouring through the slats in heavy shafts that cut across dust motes suspended in the still air. The smell hits first—hay, sweat, manure—all of it thick and raw. It’s a scent which seeps into your clothes and clings for hours. A scent I’ve grown up loving. One that gives me peace and balance.
And in the middle of it isher.
Peyton.
She’s hunched over a pitchfork, jabbing at the stall bedding with a stubborn fury that looks personal. Boots too big for her narrow feet scrape against the hard-packed earth, leaving uneven ruts. Her thin frame trembles with effort, sweat shining on the hollow of her throat, soaking into the dark strands of hair plastered against her temples. The cardigan she wore this morning is gone, leaving her in a simple black top clinging damply to her back.
She’s out of place. A city stray dumped in a world which doesn’t forgive weakness. But she doesn’t quit. Not when the wheelbarrow groans under the weight. Not when her hands redden against the wood handle. Not when her chest heaves like she’s about to break.
