ALLIE
THREE MONTHS LATER
The horse shifts beneath me, warm and solid, breath puffing white into the thinning cold.
“Easy,” Austin murmurs, not to me, but to the mare. His voice is low, calm. Certain.
I relax without meaning to.
My hands loosen on the reins, thighs finding their rhythm as we move together across an open stretch of Idaho’s Palouse prairie where Grandpa lives. Snow still lingers in patches, but the earth is waking up. Mud, grass, the promise of green.
“This okay?” he asks, riding alongside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without being crowded.
“It is,” I say, surprised to find I mean it.
He nods once, like that’s all he needs.
We ride in silence, hooves crunching, wind brushing my cheeks. I used to think silence was something to survive. Something dangerous.
Now it feels like space.
Not the kind you brace against—but the kind someone leaves you because they care enough not to take more.
“Good mount,” he says of the American Paint he rides.
“Mine, too.”
“Glad I brought the trailer,” he says, though I know it wasn’t a last-minute thing. The moment Grandpa mentioned a horse auction over the phone, I knew we’d make room for new residents back at the sanctuary.
The dairy farm comes into view—low fences, weathered barn, the old windmill leaning like it always has.
My chest tightens, but not with fear.
With recognition.
Grandpa is already outside when we pull up, coffee mug in hand. Like he knew we’d be back. He wipes his hands on his jeans, squinting into the light until he sees me.
“Horse to your liking?” he asks.
I slide down from the saddle, boots hitting the ground, and suddenly I’m in his arms. Solid. Familiar. Coffee and hay and home.
This will never get old.
He holds me. Just holds me. Like Trevor never happened or all the ugly words in between. It heals the part of my soul I didn’t know was still hurting.
“You look at home in the saddle,” he finally says, pulling back enough to see my face.
“I feel good,” I answer. And for once, it’s the truth without explanation.
His eyes flick to Austin, still mounted, hat tipped politely. Waiting.
“Your man knows horses,” Grandpa says—a genuine compliment.
“Yes.”
That’s all.
Later, over coffee at the old kitchen table, Grandpa fills in the blanks without making them sharp.
