I shift to stretch and register a weight resting heavily against my side.Teagan.The emotional distance I’ve been so desperate to maintain has fallen away over a few nights around the fire. And it looks like the physical one wasn’t far behind.
She is curled toward me in her sleeping bag, the puffy nylon barrier the only thing separating us. I look down to where her forehead is resting just beneath my collarbone. Her breathing is slow and steady, the warm exhales blowing against my shirt. She is nuzzled against me, her knees tuckedslightly, and fingers curled into the silky blanket covering me.
I should wake her. Instead, I let myself enjoy this moment. There’s something disarming about seeing her like this, completely unguarded and soft. The feeling that settles in my chest isn’t panic. It isn’t even guilt. It’s something dangerously close to peace.And I don’t entirely hate it.
“Good morning,” I murmur quietly.
Her lashes flutter. She blinks once, twice, confusion clouding her expression before awareness crashes in, her body stiffening instantly. “Oh my God,” she breathes, scrambling backward in a rush of rustling fabric. “I’m so sorry.” She nearly tangles herself in the sleeping bag, trying to create distance between us.
I push up on one elbow, fighting the urge to steady her. “It’s fine.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she stammers, “I must’ve rolled over in my sleep.”
“Must’ve,” I echo.
She clears her throat and finds her composure. “Good mornin’.”
“Morning.”
Breaking down camp is the opposite of setting up, and not just from a construction standpoint. There’s no brittle edge or deliberate avoidance from Teagan today. If I’m being honest with myself—which I’m trying hard to do—I’m less guarded, too. The conversation we carried until well pastmidnight lingers between us, unfolding into well-earned comfort this morning.
We pack the horses and saddle up as the sun crests over the mountain ridge, spilling gold across the rolling land. Frost doesn’t cling this today since we’ve been blessed with one of those rogue warm Montana early-spring mornings.
Teagan and I ride around the fence line, scanning for breaks, sagging wire, and posts split from the wind. The prairie stretches endlessly around us in patches of thawed earth and stubborn snow tucked into shadowed dips that will start to melt when the sun rises higher in the sky. We fall into a steady rhythm, fixing wires and posts with a level of efficiency that makes yesterday look like we’ve never done this before.
Teagan is more talkative during today’s ride. Actually, she doesn’t stop talking.Not that I mind in the slightest.
“You ever think about how much of this job is just chasing things that try to escape?” she asks toward the end of the day.
I glance over. “Cattle or people?”
She grins. “Depends on the day.”
I smile and shake my head. “Fence exists for a reason.”
“Yeah,” she says lightly. “So does open land.”
“Interesting take from a rancher’s daughter.”
“I get it.” She sighs with a shrug. “I’ve spent my whole life fenced in. And if my dad and brothers get their way, it’s how I’ll spend the rest of it. Roped to this ranch and stuckin this town. My fence just happens not to be made of wood and wire.”
“Someday, I hope you get to see what’s on the other side of the fence.”
“Yeah… me, too.”
She nudges Daisy on, testing her pace.
“Race you to that rise,” she calls over her shoulder before pushing a little harder.
I should decline. Instead, I press my heels into Ranger’s sides. We surge forward, and the wind cuts sharp against my face, the cold air tearing into my lungs. Hooves thunder against the earth, the rhythm vibrating through me with every powerful stride.
She’s fast. Daisy stretches out beneath her like she was born to run. Teagan doesn’t look back. She just trusts I’m there.
I lean forward, urging Ranger to keep pace, but barely staying on her tail.
At the base of the rise, she encourages Daisy into a full gallop. She drops the reins—completely—and for a brief second, I think she’s in distress. Her hands rise from the horn, and she lifts her arms outward, as if she’s offering herself to the sky. Blonde hair tears free from her braid, the long locks catching in the sun in wild strands of gold as they flow in the air behind her. She tips her head back slightly, exposing her throat to the open air.
Pure joy breaks free across her features, unfiltered and fierce. She’s not performing or showboating.
