Across the aisle, Lawson’s already halfway through tacking up his horse, Atlas, methodical as ever. A broad-chested dapple gray mare, and as steady as the man swinging the saddle onto her back. Lincoln’s in the stall next to him, working his horse, Ranger, a big chestnut gelding with an intelligent eye and just enough attitude to put him in his place when he needs it.
Beau comes in last with Duke, all easy smiles and loose movements, talking to the horse like they’re the oldest of friends.
Linc, having finished with Ranger, goes to open Griffin’s stall to get a start on him. But the second the gate swings open, Griffin snaps.
It’s quick. A warning nip more than anything, but Lincoln jerks back with a muttered curse just as Abigail steps into the barn.
She laughs immediately, bright and unbothered. “Griff,” she scolds lightly. “Don’t be rude.”
Lincoln glares at the American Paint, rubbing his forearm. “Crazy fucking horse,” he mutters.
Abigail just walks right up to Griffin, like he didn’t almost take a chunk out of Lincoln’s arm, and presses her forehead to his neck, arms sliding around him, cheek against his mane.
Griffin sighs.
I mean, heactuallyfucking sighs.
Duke flicks an ear, and Beau squints. “I just don’t get it.”
Abigail grins without looking back. “He knows who’s superior around here.”
Lawson chuckles, tightening Atlas’s cinch as he sends Abigail a wink. “Hard to argue with that.”
I watch the way she moves. So easy and confident. I watch how she checks Griffin’s tack like she’s done this a thousand times, and how he stands still as a rock just for her. A stubborn horse choosing trust like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
We all walk out of the barn together, the cold biting just enough to make everything feel sharp and alive. Mounting is smooth—boots in stirrups, leather creaking, our breaths puffing white. Abigail swings up onto Griffin like she’s been doing it her entire life, settling into the saddle with an ease that still floors me every time.
“Hey, Red,” I call as we start out. “Proud of you.”
She glances back, grin wide and unguarded, hair already coming loose beneath her hat. “Thanks, cowboy.”
The ride stretches open in front of us—fields blanketed in pale frost, the sky washed clean and bright. Abigail and Beau drift out ahead, laughing about something I can’t hear, Duke tossing his head like he’s in on the joke.
Lawson, Lincoln, and I fall into line together without even meaning to. I watch her for a long moment before I ask it. “You guys feel it too, don’t you?”
Lincoln exhales slowly. “Yeah.”
Lawson’s gaze never leaves her. “Have been for a while now.”
“We’re really doing this, then?” Linc asks, voice quieter now.
Lawson nods once. Sure and certain. “Yeah. I think we’re really doing this.”
There’s a beat, then Lincoln snorts. “What’s Mom and Dad going to think? Christ, they don’t even know she’s still here.”
I laugh, pointing at him. “They’ll just be happy you came out of your office and that this one”—I jerk my chin at Lawson—“has stopped scowling at everybody.”
Lawson finally looks away from Abbie long enough to scoff. “I do not scowl.”
“You scowl,” Linc and I say in unison.
Beau glances back at us. “You guys done with your little meeting or what?”
Lawson’s mouth curves. “Why? Feelin’ like getting your ass handed to you?”
Beau scoffs. “You fucking wish, old man.”
Lawson’s grip on Atlas’ reins tightens. “First one back to the barn is cleaning the stalls.”
