Going for a ride with Lincoln Taylor means being alone with him. Close. Close enough to feel the way the air around him hums, like he’s always holding something tight inside, ready to unravel at any moment.
“I shouldn’t…” I start.
His voice dips lower. Softer. “It’s just a ride, Abigail.” My pulse jumps. “But only if you want to.”
I do.
Ireallydo.
Swallowing, I nod my head. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”
His smile is small but real. Something I don’t see often. “Good. I’ll go saddle Ranger.” As he turns, his voice drifts back over his shoulder, rough and warm. “Slow. I promise.”
A shiver slides through me, but it’s definitely not from the cold.
Slow.
That’s going to be the problem with him, I just know it. Because I’m not entirely convinced I want slow when it comes to him. Or Lawson. Or Beau. Or Jasper.
And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
Chapter seventeen
Abigail
LincolnbringsRangeraroundfirst, his beautiful chestnut coat glistening beneath the small flakes that land there, the white blaze down his nose a stark contrast against the rest of him. The horse stands tall, calm, the way you’d expect of something that knows exactly who he belongs to.
But that’s nothing compared to the sight of Lincoln settling into the saddle.
The man looks like he was right. He’s been wearing those chapslongbefore he ever became a lawyer. He looks like a natural. Like the leather of the saddle molds to him the moment he sits, like the reins were made for his hands—big and steady. And I can’t see them beneath the layers of clothes, but I just know that the muscles in his forearms are flexing as he adjusts his grip. Heat pools in my core the longer I stare at him. As he rides over to me, I know he’s a man who doesn’t need to prove anything; he’s a man who knows this land.
He looks quieter on the back of Ranger. Calmer. Like the edges of him have instantly softened. Not vanished, but settled. He fitsup there in a way that tells me the saddle is the one place his mind can finally stop running.
Lincoln glances at me as I swing up onto Griffin. “Ready, Sweetheart?”
Third time.
I really need to get a grip.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, trying not to melt into a literal puddle.
We start at a slow walk, hooves crunching rhythmically over the fresh snow, the sky shining blue against the covered mountain ridges. Our breaths come out in clouds in front of us, before fading into the cold air.
“So…” I say, trying to distract myself from staring at the way his jacket pulls across his broad shoulders. “You ride often? Because I haven’t seen you out here once since I arrived.”
“Usually in the mornings.”
“Before everyone wakes up?”
“Yep.” His gloved hand strokes Ranger’s neck. “It’s quiet. Peaceful. There’s no paperwork. No brothers. No Beau singing in the kitchen like he’s auditioning to be the next cowboy country superstar.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
“He’d give it to you for free.” He pauses, amusement tugging at his mouth. “But the winter cuts into my riding time. Less daylight means less saddle time. I don’t get to spend as much time riding Ranger as I’d like.”
“Light is overrated,” I say.
Light is overrated? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jesus, Abs.
