First a walk, then a trot, then—when the need to overthink disappeared—came the gallop.
The wind tore through her hair, cooling her cheeks, filling her lungs with that taste of freedom.The rhythmic thud of hooves against the packed dirt drowned out everything else—Finn’s drinking, the job and the endless tension of proving herself, andagainthat kiss from Porter.
Here, in this moment, none of it mattered.
She leaned forward, letting the horse stretch out, hooves kicking up red dust that caught the last rays of sunlight like fiery, fine-spun gold.
Porter had asked if she knew how to have fun.
This…
This was it.
She grinned, the kind of wild, reckless smile she hadn’t worn in years.
Because finally—finally—she’d found something that was just for her.
They rode for ages and the horse responded like a dream in a long run that felt like they could both escape forever.But it was their first time, and he needed to settle more, and she wasn’t going to rush what would be a long, long friendship.So, they headed back for the stables as the sun disappeared on the horizon.
‘I’ll ride you in the mornings, my friend.Cooler then.’And she was looking forward to it.
As she removed the saddle, Amara ran a hand down the horse’s damp neck, the warmth of his sweat mixing with the evening air.The ride had settled something inside her.As if it’d returned a piece of herself she hadn’t realised was missing.
‘You need a real name, my friend.’Flicking the hose on, water gushed over his coat where a fine wisp of steam rose as the heat of his body met the cool spray.He let out a deep sigh, shifting his weight, enjoying the wash.Poor thing hadn’t acclimatised yet.
‘What do you want to be called?’She lathered up the sponge with soap and started working it over his shoulder.‘I can’t keep calling you Lot 728.’
This horse wasn’t a Maverick or a Rusty.He had too much presence for something like a Bluey or Banjo, because this stunning steel-grey stallion wasn’t a stockhorse, like Craig’s horse Slim.
‘How about Storm?’she mused, scrubbing along his neck.
He flicked an ear, uninterested.
‘No?Thunder?’
Still nothing.
She worked her way down his back, the scent of soap, warm horse, and damp earth filling the air.‘Cyclone?’
The horse tossed his head, sending soapy suds flying into her face.
Amara wiped her cheek, letting out a short laugh.‘Okay, okay, I get it—no Cyclone.Or clichés to do with grey weather patterns, then?’
She stepped back, studying him.He wasn’t a storm itself.But he had incredible speed like the wind that came with the grey build-up, the restless charge in the air, that pause, right before the heavens opened.Powerful, unpredictable, untamed.
‘Tempest.’
The name settled in her chest.
She reached up, rubbing his forehead.‘Yeah, I believe that’ll suit you.Don’t you agree… Tempest?’
He blinked lazily, as if giving his approval.
Amara smiled.‘Tempest it is.’
She reached for the hose again, rinsing away the suds, when something caught her eye—just beneath the slick sheen of water, near his left shoulder.A patch of hair, darker than the rest.
Amara frowned, brushing the water aside with her hand.The branding mark should’ve been clearer, but it looked… off.Uneven.Wrong.
