He grunts, knowing he’s the reason why I didn’t. “Could have had Lee drive you.”
“He was busy.”
The growl he gives tells me he isn’t happy with my short responses.
“Where were you going?” I ask curiously after a beat of silence.
“Home.”
Home? He is taking her to his house?
I want to ask—God, I want to—but I bite down hard on my bottom lip and keep it in. None of this is my business. None of him is my business.
When the truck finally turns into the entrance of Broken Ridge, a rush of relief slips out of me in a sigh. Almost over. A few more seconds and I can get away from him. Away from the fantasy I created in my mind.
The silence stretches, heavy, until he rolls to a stop in front of the main house. I don’t wait for him to say anything. My hand goes straight for the door handle. I’m not thanking him. I didn’t ask for this ride, didn’t want it. I’d rather have walked the whole damn way than sit this close to him, breathing the same air, feeling the weight of his presence. Especially with his girlfriend in the front seat.
“We’re going to talk about this, Peyton.”
I shake my head, not bothering to look at him as I slip from the truck. “There’s nothing to talk about, Colter.”
I don’t know if he’s about to say more, and honestly, I don’t care. I slam the door harder than I need to and march up the steps without looking back. His headlights stay locked on me, steady and unyielding, until I push through the front door and let it click shut behind me.
I should leave it alone. I should walk away, forget the ride, forget him. But I don’t. I find myself drifting toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside enough to see. His truck is still there, idling like he doesn’t trust me to stay put. Only when I’msafely inside does he finally back up, turn slow, and disappear down the drive.
I whisper it in my head like a curse: I hate Colter Shaw. I hate him. Over and over, like maybe repetition will make it true. He’s an arrogant, insufferable asshole—he’s proved it more than once. I let that belief slip slightly on the trail. Thinking he truly cared for me when I am nothing to him but a burden. A responsibility.
Still, part of me can’t simply toss away his softer side. I can’t ignore how he comforted me on the trail. I can’t ignore how he refused to let me walk alone in the dark. Yes, he used brute force to shove me into his truck, but underneath the rough edges, there was something else—concern. And then, the last nail in the coffin: he waited. He didn’t leave until he was sure I was safe.
Those three things stick like burrs under my skin. They’re not going away.
But what I saw in the pool house isn’t going away either. It isn’t his fault. We aren’t in a relationship. He never told me he was interested in me. I created a fantasy out of simple kindness.
And I am the one who must live with that.
20
The next morning,I throw myself into the one thing which always makes sense here—work.
The barn is alive with motion, warm hay dust spinning through beams of sunlight. Horses shift in their stalls, restless and watchful, picking up on the energy buzzing through the ranch. In a few days is the Belmont Stakes, and the whole crew is wound tight.
I’m elbow-deep in brushing down a bay gelding named Jasper when John appears beside me, his ball cap low, sleeves shoved to his elbows. He doesn’t waste time with small talk. Simply hands me another brush and jerks his chin toward the mare in the next stall.
“She gets jittery if you rush her,” he says. “Long, slow strokes down her flank. Calms her.”
I nod and take the brush, letting the mare sniff my wrist before I start. Her skin quivers under my touch, but she settles after a few minutes, leaning into the rhythm like she needs it as much as I do.
“Good,” John mutters, approval gruff but there. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
The barn fills with sound, brushes dragging through coats, the squeak of leather tack being oiled, the steady hum of conversation from the other hands. A couple of them joke back and forth, laughter cutting through the morning. Someone whistles a tune I don’t recognize, and it threads through the air like an anchor keeping everyone steady.
I keep my head down, letting the work soothe me. The nightmare came to me again last night. More vivid than the last. It still clings like cobwebs, and underneath that, the pool house memory gnaws at the edges of my chest. The horses don’t judge, don’t ask questions. They just exist, breathing and solid, letting me lose myself in the rhythm.
“Next is Justify,” John says after a while, tipping his chin toward the last stall. “He’s quick-footed. Colter’s betting on him for the Stakes.”
Of course Colter’s name has to slip in. It’s like the man is stitched into every corner of this place.
I grab a curry comb and step into Justify’s stall. The monstrous black stallion flicks his ears back, testing me, but when I run the comb in circles along his shoulder, he exhales a warm gust, ruffling my hair.
