I lean back against the fence and take a pull from my water bottle, eyes tracking the line of the land. This ranch has been mine for a long time. Bought, paid for, and worked intosomething solid. I know every rise and dip. Every place the earth softens too much after a hard rain. I like knowing where things stand. I don’t like how often my thoughts drift thirty miles east.
I picture her without trying to. The way she stands still on purpose and the way she doesn’t rush my horse. Nicole has this way of looking at a horse like it’s a silent conversation instead of a problem to solve.
I tighten the last bolt harder than necessary.
Red Ledger would be in the pen right now. I know the rhythm already, even without watching. He’d test once, maybe twice. She’d wait him out. He’d decide.
Trust that is earned and not forced gets under my skin. So does she.
Her smile haunts me, along with the intensity of her gaze. When Nicole looks at you, it's like being singled out in a crowded room and not knowing whether you should be grateful or brace for impact. And those beautiful brown eyes. They’re kind, but deep with a kind of knowledge most people don’t have. When she looks at me, it makes me feel like she believes me and my horse are worth her time and trouble.
Of course, she is getting paid a handsome sum to get Red Ledger straightened out. She also would make no guarantee. That should make this easier. It doesn’t. I looked her webpage up last night. Her list of racing winners she’s worked with is quite impressive.
I haul the old trough out and scrub it clean, muscles burning, sun beating down. One of the part-time hands drives by in the truck and tips his hat. I return it automatically, conversation unnecessary.
This is the work that steadies me. But, it’s not really working today. My mind slides back to the track and the window where I view her working with my colt. To the space she insists on keeping between herself and anyone who might interfere.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and finally pull my phone from my pocket. No messages. No missed calls. It’s disappointing. She’s not the type to check in. She doesn’t need reassurance.
I type her name into my contacts and stop there. I don’t text or call. I shove the phone back into my pocket like it burned me.
By late afternoon, the work’s done. The gates are fixed and the trough is flowing clean. The ranch looks the way it should. But, I don’t.
I sit on the tailgate and stare out at the land that’s never once surprised me. That’s one of the things I like about it. This land is predictable, loyal and uncomplicated.
Women are not any of those things, at least from my experience. And the worst part — the part I don’t want to admit even to myself — is that not seeing Nicole today didn’t dull anything about my growing interest. It sharpened it.
I imagine her in the pen, dust on her boots, hair pulled back, attention fixed somewhere just beyond reach. I imagine Red Ledger choosing calm again, because she gave him space to.
I imagine what it would be like to be trusted like that. That thought lands too close to something I’ve been avoiding.
I stand, slam the tailgate shut, and head back toward the house. The sun’s dropping now, painting the pasture gold. Another good day’s work. Another night alone.
Tomorrow, I tell myself, I’ll make the drive. Because whatever this is … it’s already too insistent inside me to ignore. I’m starting to realize something that sits heavy in my heart and mind. I didn’t come into this looking for love. But I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m not looking at all.
Chapter 8
Nicole
Iknow he’s not coming today. I don’t check the window as often, but my awareness keeps drifting there anyway — like a bruise you don’t touch but can’t forget is there. The space in the window stays empty, and I tell myself that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Distance is part of the process. For the horse and for me.
Red Ledger greets me with his head already lowered, ears flicking once before settling. He’s alert but not tight and bracing. That alone tells me yesterday mattered, even without an audience.
“Good boy,” I murmur, resting my palm against his shoulder.
He doesn’t flinch. We take our time as I gently place the halter on him and lead him out of the stall.
He stands proud and tall beside the tack room area and I secure him there.
“Let’s make you even more handsome,” I tell him as he allows me to begin grooming him. I use long strokes with thebrush. We’re in no rush and I want him to not feel any tension from me. I take a deep breath and let it out.
He yields to the brush, shifting his weight so I can reach the itchy places by his withers. For a moment I let myself admire him. He has a hollow between his neck and shoulder. I notice the darker shadows under his copper coat. He’s a beautiful animal. He isn’t delicate, but honest and strong.
There’s a small scar down his left shoulder — the kind that never disappears, just grows around itself. I want to trace it with my hand, but I don’t. Instead, I work my way down his legs, cleaning the dust from his cannon bones.
He tolerates the moment when I lift his feet with no jerking. There's a part of me that's tempted to call Harrison and tell him that his colt is on the edge of becoming a partner, not a project. But I don’t.
I let the brush follow the lines of his body until his breathing changes, deeper now, and steadier. When I move behind him, he shifts his weight but doesn’t snap back into himself.
