She'd been my mirror. My proof that broken things could learn to trust again.
I stood and leaned my forehead against her neck for a moment, just breathing her in. Warm horse smell. Life.
"Big day," I said, because talking to horses was easier than talking to people.
The Scottish clients were arriving at three. A small group, according to my office manager, Denise. Four cabins, the main guest house, two weeks of riding the trails with curated rustic charm. Exactly the kind of booking she had been chasing since she convinced me we needed more "international clients" and fewer locals who only wanted to argue about boarding fees.
I tried not to feel dread.
Not because I hated people.
But foreigners meant variables. Variables meant unpredictability.
Which meant my brain went to where it always went, cataloging every possible disaster that could happen.
My pulse kicked up. I gave myself ten seconds. Ten seconds to feel the fear, let it burn through me, and then put it somewhere I could function.
One. Two. Three?—
By ten, I was done.
The panic wasn't gone, but it was behind a door I could close.
"Okay," I whispered to Cassie. "You think we can do this?"
She nudged my shoulder, not gently.
I laughed under my breath, the sound surprising in the quiet.
"Yeah, yeah. You're right."
By seven,the ranch was waking up.
The sun was turning the frost on the pastures into a field of glitter. The property stretched out around me. Sixty acres of land I’d poured the inheritance my parents had left me into.
Boarding barns. Guest cabins. Trails through pines and aspens. A main guest house that could host retreats with couples who posted pictures of sunsets with captions likehealing.
It looked peaceful from the outside.
It was.
Most days.
Clipboard in hand, I walked across the yard toward the main house, already mentally listing everything I needed to checkbefore the group arrived at three. Beds made. Towels folded. Guest baskets stocked. Trail maps printed. First aid kits updated. Emergency numbers visible.
And, because my brain liked to be creative, five other things that probably didn’t matter but might, if the universe decided to test me.
The main guest building was beautiful in that rustic-luxe way that made city people gasp. Exposed beams. Stone fireplace. Wide windows looking out at the mountains like a postcard.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, then locked it behind me out of habit.
"Normal," I muttered.
The main building was clean, but clean wasn't enough.
I went through everything.
Dining room tables wiped down. Chairs straight. Fire laid in the stone fireplace, ready to light. Lounge cushions fluffed. No dust on the bookshelves. Coffee station stocked. Guest mugs lined up like soldiers.
