The way her eyes lit up was genuine. She was enjoying this and wasn’t even trying to hide it. “If you think I’m ready.”
I opened the gate and led her through it. “We won’t go far.”
“Okay, then. Lead the way.”
We rode along the lower ridge where the trees offered cover from the worst of the wind. Snow that had melted and refroze crusted over the packed trail. The sky was cloudy, but the sun shone through, making it hard to believe we were supposed to get another storm overnight.
We rode in silence for a few minutes. Morgan’s shoulders were still tense, but she looked a little more comfortable in the saddle.
“You’re handling her better,” I said.
She glanced over, surprised. “Was that a compliment?”
“Hey, don’t get cocky. It’s only an observation,” I teased. Truth was, she’d taken to riding a hell of a lot faster than I figured she would.
She rewarded my words with a smile that made the bottom drop out of my stomach. No matter how much I resented her presence, Morgan Carter was gorgeous. And when I got a glimpse of the woman behind the layers of armor, it made me wish we were on the same side.
We rounded a bend where the trail narrowed and the trees thinned. The wind hit a little harder, cutting across the open stretch like it wanted to push us back and keep us from going any farther. Snickers moved forward, even as a branch cracked above us. Then snow dumped in a sudden rush.
Lollipop startled. It wasn’t bad. Not at first. She jumped sideways, a quick spook, the kind of reaction most riders corrected without thinking. But Morgan wasn’t most riders. She immediately tensed up and yanked the reins. That was a mistake. The mare’s head came up. Her entire body tightened. And then she bolted.
“Damn it,” I bit out, already kicking my own horse into motion.
Somehow Morgan was able to stay in the saddle. That was the first thing I registered. She didn’t scream or panic. She grabbed at the saddle horn with one hand and held the reins with the other, her eyes wide but focused, like her pride wouldn’t let her fall even if her body wanted to.
Lollipop tore down the trail, hooves pounding, snow flying behind her. I pushed my horse hard but kept him under control and cut through a stand of trees so I could catch up.
The chase went on for a few minutes, and by the time I caught up, Lollipop had slowed enough to catch her breath. Morgan was still locked tight in the saddle, her body as rigid as a fence post.
I came alongside and reached for the reins, careful not to spook either the horse or Morgan any further. “Morgan,” I called, my voice low. “Look at me.”
Her gaze snapped to mine.
“Breathe,” I said. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”
She drew in a shaky breath. Then another. Her shoulders eased a fraction, and the mare responded immediately, slowing when she felt her loosen. That’s what people didn’t understand. Riding a horse wasn’t about control. It was about communication.
I brought Lollipop to a stop and dismounted, moving in close.
“Get down,” I ordered.
Morgan’s eyes flared. “I’m fine.”
“No.” I stepped closer and put my hand on her calf. “You’re not fine. Get down.”
Her lips trembled, giving her away. She swung her leg over, awkward and stiff. I reached up and caught her, wrapping my hands around her waist as she slid down the rest of the way. When her boots hit the ground, she swayed toward me.
I kept my hands on her longer than necessary, telling myself I was only steadying her until she was stable. Her breath hitched. Mine did too.
“Are you okay?” I forced myself to sound calm even though the thought of her getting hurt sent my pulse into overdrive.
She swallowed. “I think so.”
Her cheeks were flushed from cold and the rush of adrenaline, and somewhere along the way she’d lost the knit beanie that had been keeping her hair under control. She looked alive in a way that made my chest tighten.
“Good,” I muttered as I turned toward the sky.
In the space of a few short minutes, cloud cover had rolled in low and fast. It wasn’t the slow drift the forecast had promised. It was a wall of dark gray clouds, and it was headed our way.
