There was something peaceful about riding beside Sawyer, something that didn't require words. His presence was steady, solid, asking nothing from me except that I be there.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked, when we'd been riding for almost twenty minutes and the main buildings of the ranch had shrunk to specks behind us. My voice came out soft, not wanting to shatter the peace that had settled around us.
"North fence." Sawyer's voice was low, rough, carrying easily across the space between our horses. His pale eyes scanned the horizon, cataloging the land with the ease of someone who'd walked every inch of it, his weathered face calm and focused. "Storm knocked down a section last week. Been meaning to fix it."
"And you wanted company?" The question came out more vulnerable than I intended, my hands tightening on the reins as I waited for his answer. Sawyer was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was chewing on his response, a musclejumping beneath his stubbled cheek. When he finally spoke, the words came out rough as gravel, barely audible over the sound of hoofbeats.
"Wanted yours." He didn't look at me as he said it, kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead, but I could see the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his scarred hands had tightened on the reins until his knuckles went white.
I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to respond to this silent man who used words like they cost him something and had just spent two of them on me. So I just nudged Copper closer until our horses were walking side by side, close enough that my leg nearly brushed his with every step.
Sawyer's shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension bleeding out of them. He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. The landscape changed gradually as we rode—manicured pastures giving way to rougher terrain, rocky outcroppings and scrubby brush replacing the gentle rolling hills.
"It's beautiful out here." My voice came out soft, almost reverent, as I took in the wild sweep of land around us. "Different from the main ranch."
"Wilder." Sawyer's voice was thoughtful, his pale eyes distant as they traced the horizon. His copper hair caught the sunlight, turning it to flame, and there was something almost peaceful in his weathered face. "Reid keeps the pastures near the house groomed, presentable. Out here, he lets the land be what it wants to be."
"Do you have a favorite part?" I found myself asking, genuinely curious. "Of the ranch?" He considered the question for longer than I expected, his pale eyes going distant, his jaw working slightly like he was deciding whether to answer.
"There's a ridge about two miles east of here." His voice was rough, almost hesitant, like he wasn't used to sharing things like this. His scarred hands moved restlessly on the reins, betrayingnervousness that didn't show on his face. "You can see the whole valley from up there. Sometimes, when things get too loud in my head, I ride out there and just... sit. Watch the sun move across the sky. Listen to the wind." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It's the only place I've ever felt peaceful."
The admission felt like a gift—something precious and fragile that he didn't offer lightly.
"Maybe you could show me sometime." I kept my voice soft, not wanting to spook him, my heart beating faster at the thought. "If you wanted." Sawyer turned to look at me, something flickering in his pale eyes—surprise, maybe, or hope. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching, and for a moment he looked younger than I'd ever seen him.
"Maybe." His voice was rough, cracking slightly on the word. He cleared his throat, looked away. "Yeah. Maybe I will." We rode in comfortable silence after that, but something had shifted between us—something warm and fragile and new.
"How long have you been riding?" I asked after a while, watching the easy way he moved with Scout's gait, like he'd been born on horseback.
"Since I was eight or so." Sawyer's voice had gone distant, his pale eyes fixed on something I couldn't see. His jaw had tightened, a shadow passing over his weathered face. "There was a farm near where I grew up. Old man named Henry who lived there alone. He let me help with his horses sometimes, taught me to ride, to care for them properly." A pause, heavy with old grief. "He was the only person who was ever kind to me, before I came here."
"What happened to him?" My voice came out soft, gentle, not wanting to push but wanting him to know I was listening.
"Died." The word came out flat, closed, his jaw going tight. His hands had fisted on the reins, his knuckles white, his wholebody rigid with old pain. "I was fourteen. Heart attack, they said. After that, there wasn't any reason to stay."
So he'd been on his own since he was fourteen. Younger than me, even.
"I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate, but I meant them. I reached across the space between our horses and touched his arm briefly, feeling the warmth of him through the flannel, the way his muscles tensed and then relaxed under my touch. Sawyer's eyes met mine, something flickering in their pale depths—gratitude, maybe, or understanding.
"Long time ago." His voice was rough, but some of the tension had bled out of his shoulders. "Different person." The damaged fence came into view about an hour later—several posts down, wire tangled and torn, the whole section listing drunkenly to one side.
"Worse than I thought." Sawyer swung down from Scout with easy grace, his boots hitting the ground solidly. He started unpacking supplies from his saddlebags—wire cutters, pliers, new fencing, thick leather gloves. He tossed me a pair, his pale eyes assessing. "You know fence work?"
"Enough." I pulled on the gloves and flexed my fingers, getting used to the feel of them. "Did a lot of farm work over the years. Picked up skills where I could."
"Where was the worst job?" His voice was gruff, but there was genuine curiosity underneath—the most personal question he'd ever asked me.
"Hog farm in Arkansas." I grimaced at the memory, my nose wrinkling involuntarily. "The smell never came out of my clothes. I had to burn everything when I left." Sawyer made a sound that might have been a laugh—short and rough, barely more than a breath, but his pale eyes had crinkled at the corners, his weathered face softening.
"Could be worse." His voice was almost light, the closest to teasing I'd ever heard from him. "Could've been a chicken farm."
"Please tell me you're speaking from experience." I raised an eyebrow, surprised to find myself smiling.
"Three months in Georgia." His weathered face twisted with remembered disgust, his nose wrinkling in a way that made him look almost boyish. "To this day, I can't eat chicken without thinking about it."
I laughed—actually laughed, the sound startled out of me—and Sawyer went still, his pale eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that stole my breath. His expression had gone soft, almost wondering, like he was seeing something he'd never expected to find.
"There it is again." His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with something I couldn't name. His scarred hand rose slightly, like he wanted to reach for me, then dropped back to his side. "That laugh."
