For half a second I saw the man from Rose’s wedding photos—open, warm, full of easy joy—and then the half-second ended and he was Lee again, but the echo of the laugh stayed in the barn like a bell that keeps ringing after you’ve stopped striking it.
Thursday, he asks about my day.
Not about the horses. Not about Earl or Lockhart or anything practical.
He asks what I did. Where I went.
Whether the client in Bandera was the one with the mule that kicks.
He asks like he wants to know.
Like the shape of my day matters to him.
Like he’s been thinking about me when I’m not here and the questions are the way the thinking becomes real.
I answer carefully.
Not because I don’t trust him, but because hope is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever held. I’ve held it before and had it taken away, and I’m not sure my hands are steady enough for it this time.
Hell, even the brothers notice.
They’re not subtle about it, either.
MC men aren’t exactly known for their emotional discretion.
I catch a prospect elbowing another prospect when Lee walks me to my truck on Wednesday evening.
Shadow watches us from the porch of his and Grace’s place with an expression I can only describe as cautious hope—the face of a man who’s seen his best friend survive something terrible and is watching, carefully, to see if the surviving is turning into living.
Grace corners me in the vet office on Thursday.
She’s huge now—seven months and carrying it all in front, her white coat straining at the buttons, her hand on her lower back in that unconscious way pregnant women have.
She’s been scaling back on the physical work, which means I’ve been picking up more of the hoof care for the rescues.
We’ve fallen into an easy friendship—she handles the medical side, I handle the structural side, and somewhere in the middle of all those joint assessments and treatment plans, she became my friend.
The first real friend I’ve had since Rose.
“He’s different,” she says. Not a question. She’s leaning against the exam table, eating crackers from a sleeve she keeps in her coat pocket. “Shadow said he hasn’t seen Lee like this in years. Since before.”
“Like what?”
“Present.” She tilts her head, studying me with the same clinical attention she gives the horses. “You did that.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You stayed.” She says it simply, like it’s obvious, like staying is the easiest thing in the world and not the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “You showed up and you stayed and you didn’t let him push you away. That’s not nothing, Bex. You know how Banshee can be.”
I look at my hands.
The calluses, the scars, the permanent darkening of the skin around my knuckles from years of forge work.
Hands that are good at building things. Holding things together. Fixing what’s broken.
“I’m scared,” I say. The admission surprises me. I don’t do vulnerability—not with anyone, not ever. But Grace has this quality, this steady warmth that makes truth feel safe. “I’m scared this is just—grief bouncing. A man who was emotionally dead for years coming back to life and reaching for the nearest warm body. What if it’s not me he wants? What if it’s just not being alone?”
“I promise you, this man will not hurt you. One look in his eyes tells me that much.”
