This was my job. The thing I was built for.
But for the first time in a decade, it wasn't the only thing occupying my head.
The worst part was how fast my body had learned him.
That was the thing nobody warned me about—not the falling, not the feelings, but the way your body rewired itself around another person until they became part of your operating system.
Every night followed the same pattern. I'd go to bed alone. Read for twenty minutes, maybe thirty, pretending I wasn't listening for footsteps on my porch. Turn off the lamp. Close my eyes.
Then I'd hear the door.
He never knocked. Just let himself in—quiet, unhurried, boots by the door. Sully would settle on the porch without being told. And the mattress would dip behind me, and the sheets would shift, and the whole cabin would fill with the scent of him—leather and pine and clean skin still warm from the shower he'd taken before coming to me.
Some nights it was fast and urgent, his hands between my thighs while I buried sounds in the pillow. Some nights, Isurfaced from half-sleep already wanting him, my body choosing him before my brain was awake enough to argue.
And some nights—the ones that wrecked me worst—he'd slide in and just hold me. Not push. Not press. Just his body wrapped around mine, his heartbeat against my back, his thumb tracing slow circles on my bare stomach while my breathing synced with his.
Those nights I'd lie in the dark, surrounded by him, and feel something crack open that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with safety. With being held by someone who wanted me but didn't demand. Who showed up every night and let my body decide what I needed.
I was addicted. That was the truth I couldn't rationalize away.
Not to the sex—though the sex was ruinous, the sort that wrecked you for other people, where his hands knew your body so well it felt like they'd been built for the terrain of you. I was addicted to him. To the weight of his arm across my waist. To the sound of his breathing shifting as he fell asleep behind me. To the way he'd murmur my name against my hair when he first pressed close—Maggie—like the word itself was something worth holding in his mouth.
He remembered things, too. Last Tuesday, I'd mentioned the cold snap coming. Wednesday night, he'd shown up with a flannel shirt that smelled like him, draping it over my shoulders on the porch before bed. "Lost and found," he'd said. "Nobody'll miss it." I'd worn it to sleep after he left.
And then there were the horses.
With Jack's daily work and his expertise shaping the approach, they were thriving in ways they hadn't in years. Dancer was now calm enough to accept a saddle—a horse who'd been a panicking wreck three weeks ago. The mare with the leg problem was moving soundly. Even the older geldings seemedmore responsive, like the whole barn had caught whatever Jack was putting down.
"The proposal's strong," Jack said one afternoon, leaning against the paddock fence while I watched Dancer work the round pen. "Your numbers are solid. The Driscoll mare checks out—her vet panel came back clean. You've got the foundation of something real here."
"If my dad approves the stud fee." I kept my eyes on the horse. "That's a big if."
"Walk me through how this works."
"I present the numbers. Market analysis, bloodline data, five-year projections, the whole spreadsheet cathedral." Something loosened behind my sternum just saying it out loud—owning it. "The numbers are airtight—I don't put a proposal in front of my family unless I can defend every cell in that document. Then, my parents go to Wyatt and Ivy's for Thursday dinner, and they talk it through. Everyone gets a say. Daddy makes the final call on the spend, but he won't go against the family."
"And you think they'll say no?"
"I think they'll have questions. The cattle expansion is already stretching the budget. Asking for a stud fee on top of that—" I shrugged. "It's a hard sell."
"Not if the person selling it built a spreadsheet cathedral." He paused. "The Raven Spur stallion's progeny report speaks for itself—twelve foals, eight working stock, top ten percent temperament scores. You pair that with your projections, and it's not a gamble. It's an investment with a three-year return."
"You memorized the progeny report?"
"I pulled the report. You think I wouldn't know the numbers?"
I looked at him—actually looked, instead of performing professionalism. He was doing it again. Quietly buildingscaffolding around my dream without being asked, without wanting credit.
Nobody did that. Nobody except him.
"The auction's in three weeks," he said. "Have you put in for time off?"
"I can't just leave. The north pasture clearing, the irrigation?—"
"Are things other people can manage for two days."
"Not the way I manage them."
