He glanced at me. Softer. More meaning in that look than in a hundred words.“Reminded me of someone.”
My throat went tight.
He held out his hand, palm up, gentle invitation in the gesture. “Want to meet her properly?”
I stepped forward, breath shaking a little—not from fear, but from the warmth blooming low in my belly.
“Yes,” I said, voice soft. “I’d really like to.”
He opened the gate, led me inside. Poet stood perfectly still as I approached, then gently pressed her forehead against my chest, breathing me in.
"Oh," I breathed. "Oh, hello, beautiful."
"She never does that," Liam said quietly. "Not with strangers. It's like she knows you."
We spent the next hour with Poet. Liam showed me how to put on her halter, talking me through each step with patient instruction. How to hold the lead rope—firm but not tight. How to walk with her, keeping her at my shoulder, establishing trust and leadership without force.
"She wants to please," he explained as Poet followed me around the paddock like a puppy. "Most horses do. They just need to know what you're asking and that you're safe to follow."
He taught me how to brush her, starting at her neck and working back, always in the direction of hair growth. Poet practically melted under my hands, making these little sounds of contentment that made me laugh—the first real laugh since LA.
"She's talking to you," Liam said, grinning. "That's her happy sound."
"I love her," I said, meaning it completely. "She's perfect."
"She's yours."
"What?"
"If you want her. I've been keeping her for you." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he'd always done when nervous. "I know that sounds crazy, keeping a horse for someone who didn't even live in Texas, but I always thought... hoped maybe someday..."
I swallowed hard. ”You kept a horse for me for four years?"
"I bought a horse that reminded me of you, and then couldn't bear to sell her. So yeah, I guess I did."
I had to turn back to Poet to hide the tears. This man. This impossible, wonderful man.
"Come on," he said, tactfully ignoring my emotional moment. "Let me show you the rest."
The tour of his small ranch was exactly what I needed. Normal, easy, no pressure. He showed me the chicken coop he'd built himself, introducing me to the dozen hens and one extremely proud rooster named Caesar.
"Sophia named him," he said when I laughed. "She thinks she's hilarious."
"She is hilarious."
The chickens were surprisingly personable, following us around, pecking at our boots. One particularly bold hen jumped up on my shoulder, making me squeal—not in fear but in delight.
"That's Dolly. She thinks she's a parrot."
We visited the small barn where he kept feed and supplies, everything organized with military precision. The tack room smelled like leather and oil, bridles and saddles hung neatly on the walls.
"Do you compete?" I asked, noting some ribbons tacked to a board.
"Some. Local rodeos, mostly. Clay's the real competitor—number six in the world—but I do okay in calf roping."
"Of course you do."
He showed me the garden plot he was trying to establish—"Louisa insists every ranch needs a vegetable garden"—and the spot where he planned to build a bigger barn eventually. We walked the fence line, him pointing out where his land bordered the Blackwood ranch, how they shared water rights to the creek, where he hoped to buy the adjacent fifty acres if old Mr. Thompson ever decided to sell.
