So, I shove that feeling down, push away from the desk, and head toward the kitchen. There’s work to do tomorrow. Plenty of things to focus on.
But try as I might, my eyes stray toward that window one last time before I leave the room. And dammit if it doesn’t feel like gravity shifting all over again.
Chapter sixteen
Abigail
two weeks later
Sunlightleaksthroughthewindows of the barn, dust drifting through the air as I fork fresh shavings into Griffin’s stall. It’s the same thing I’ve done every day since Lawson offered me a job at the ranch, and it’s become comforting in ways I didn’t expect.
My gloves are already damp from hauling buckets of water, and I’ve got straw in my hair and sweat rolling down my spine despite the freezing November air outside, but god… I genuinely like this.Loveit, even. There’s something steadying about the rhythm of barn chores, between brushing coats, scraping mud from hooves, hauling hay, checking blankets, sweeping aisles in wide, satisfying strokes.
It’s the first time in years I feel useful rather than trapped.
Griffin nudges my arm as I move to pass him, his velvety nose bumping insistently at my sleeve until I scratch the spot between his eyes. “Needy today, huh?” I murmur.
He flicks an ear, then leans his whole head into my chest like I’m the only person in the world worth trusting. Two weeks ago, he reluctantly let me approach him. Now, he stands quietlywhen I tighten his cinch. He whinnies when I walk into the barn. He rests that big paint-colored head on my shoulder like we’ve known one another for our entire lives. Lawson even said he felt good about me doing my riding lessons on Griffin from now on.
The big grumpy bastard, as everyone likes to call him, isn’t really so grumpy after all. Just… selective.
“Horses choose their people,” Lawson told me. “And, Darlin’… he chose you.”
Maybe that’s why being out here feels kind of like healing. Griffin doesn’t question me. Doesn’t know my past. He doesn’t judge me or ask what happened in my life. In New York.
He just lets me exist as I am now.
Speaking of New York…
It already feels like a lifetime ago.
It’s only been a few weeks, but the distance between who I was there and who I’m becoming here feels enormous. Joe checks in sometimes, mostly to make sure the boys aren’t scaring me off and are “behaving”—but she never asks about the past. She doesn’t push. She just stands there with the door open for whenever I’m ready.
I love that about her.
Some nights, though, I wake up breathless. Heart racing. That familiar dread crawling all over my skin as their faces flood my nightmares. I shove those memories back into the dark as best I can, but they still manage to find the cracks. I’m not healed. But I’m better.
I know I’ll eventually have to tell the guys everything.I owe them that much.And I’m almost there, just… not yet. Not when the words still feel sharp in my throat.
Stepping outside to dump a wheelbarrow of manure, I pause at the barn threshold. Snow covers everything, thin but perfect. Only a couple of inches, but it transforms the whole ranch into something I’ve only ever seen on postcards and in my mostbeautiful daydreams. The pasture fencing is dusted white, the roofs frosted like a sugared gingerbread house. The mountains are beyond breathtaking, sharp peaks softened by early snow, sunlight catching on the drifts and making everything glitter like the most expensive diamonds.
I’ve lived through plenty of New York winters, but I’ve never seen snow likethis.
Untouched.
Endless.
Quiet.
Like the whole world has exhaled.
I’m still staring at the mountains when footsteps sound behind me. I turn and nearly forget how to breathe.
Lincoln stands in the barn doorway, having just come down from upstairs where he spends all his time, coat unzipped, breath misting in the cold air. His sherpa-lined canvas jacket hangs open over a flannel that hugs his chest far too well. His jean-clad legs are covered with a pair of chaps strapped snuggly around them. He’s wearing a damn cowboy hat too. Buckskin in color, sitting low on his brow, shadowing those unreadable mossy-green eyes.
He looks… Jesus. He looks like the kind of man women write country songs about.
He gives me a small nod. “Afternoon.”
