Warner nudges me aside, and I step away from the stall. He unlatches the gate and swings it open, striding in and pulling a saddle down off the wall.
“Peyton usually rides Priscilla, and this is her saddle.” His gaze runs over my body. “It’ll work for you.”
I feel hot, as if his gaze holds actual heat. To alleviate the feeling, I say, “Are you telling me I have the body of a thirteen-year old?” It’s a bad joke, but I’m uncomfortable. It makes my brain short-circuit.
His fingers, busy buckling the straps around the horse’s middle, pause. He looks over at me, his eyes pouring into mine and his expression hardening. “No, Tenley, that’s not what I’m getting at.” He goes back to what he was doing. “You’re petite, and these things aren’t sized like jeans.”
I don’t say anything more. I don’t understand why he sounded gruff just now. Warner leads Priscilla from her stall, and I fall in beside him as he walks from the stable. We pass what looks like a barn on our way to wherever it is Warner is taking me. The wood of the barn looks newer, not as weathered as the stable, and I ask Warner about that, simply for the sake of having something to talk about.
“A fire burned it down last summer. This new barn was finished about six months ago.”
“How did the fire start?”
Warner glances at me, his eyes wary. “The official story is that we don’t know what happened.”
“And the unofficial story?”
Warner looks down at the rein in his hand. Priscilla’s rhythmic steps are the only sound, until Warner says, “Arson.”
I gasp. “Wyatt said this was the safest place to be in town. Apparently not.”
“It is now.”
It is now. His words turn over in my head. “Did something happen to the arsonist?” The tone is there in my voice, the apprehension, that conveys how I might not really want to know.
“Let’s just say he won’t be lighting anything else on fire.”
I stop short. Warner senses I’m no longer beside him and pauses, turning to look back at me. Morgan’s comment about the ‘Wild West’ floats through my mind. I’d told her that concept didn’t exist anymore, but now I’m thinking maybe I was wrong.
“Warner, did you,”—I look around, and though nobody is in sight, I still whisper my next words—“kill him?”
“No.” He shakes his head, and my whole body sags in relief. I want to ask more questions, but Warner’s walking again and I get the feeling it’s not a subject he wants to talk about.
We reach a circular pen, surrounded on all sides by wooden fencing, and Warner opens the gate. “This is called a round pen,” he explains, stepping through with Priscilla. “You used one at the Circle B on the day of the photo shoot.”
I nod, giving them some space and then follow. I remember very little from my single riding lesson when I was younger, except the strict instruction to never walk right behind a horse.
Warner slows to a step in the middle of the round pen. He faces me, one hand stroking the side of Priscilla that isn’t covered by the saddle.
“Do you remember how I showed you to climb on Titan last week?”
I nod.
Warner steps away from the horse and gestures, silently asking me to show him.
I’m nervous, but I’ll never let on. I lift my chin and walk to Priscilla’s left side. Sliding my left boot into the stirrup, I pull myself up and swing my right leg over, grateful she is smaller than Titan.
“Good,” Warner says, looking up at me. He takes off his hat and pushes back his hair, then replaces the cap on his head. “Remember to relax. Horses can sense if you’re nervous.” He steps up to Priscilla’s head, reaching for the reins. “Now, I’m just going to walk her around the pen a couple times to get you used to the feel. I know you rode Titan with me, but that was different. I was in control.”
That day floats through my mind. But not actually that day, more like those few minutes near the end of our time together. Right before Warner declared our kiss a mistake.
We’re about halfway through the second lap when Warner looks back at me. “What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.”
I give him a look and he grins. “This is really boring.”
