Not too close to Eli. Not tucked safely behind, either. Where the work will matter. Where mistakes won't be forgiven.
Chace glances my way, just briefly. Curious, but not surprised.
I ignore it and focus on the cattle. The low hum of sound rippling through the herd as they sense pressure shifting. Heads lift. Bodies angle. Dust stirs under hooves, faint and dry.
Eli mounts and rides out first.
The cattle begin to move almost immediately, the mass responding to the subtle shift of riders like water finding its path. I feel it settle into my bones the way it always used to. The rhythm. The balance between pushing and guiding. The delicate line between force and patience.
I loosen my grip on the reins and let Blaze do what he knows how to do.
My thighs burn faintly as I adjust my seat, the old muscle memory waking like it never went dormant. When a steer drifts left, I angle just enough to redirect it without forcing the issue. Pressure on. Pressure off.
No one calls instructions.
They don't need to.
The line stretches as we move toward the lower pasture, the dark thinning slowly as the sky begins to pale at the edges. I stay aware of Eli's position without staring at him, adjusting instinctively when he shifts.
Once, when the herd slows at a narrow point between two rises, we end up riding side by side for a stretch.
Close enough I catch the scent of him—leather and sweat and wind and something distinctly Eli beneath it all. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his horse. Close enough that if either of us shifted in the saddle, our legs would brush.
He doesn't look over. Neither do I.
But my pulse kicks up anyway, and I know—somehow I know—he feels it too. The awareness humming between us like a live wire neither of us is willing to touch.
Then the passage widens and he pulls ahead, and I can breathe again.
Once, he glances back over his shoulder.
I'm already moving.
Covering a gap that opens when the ground dips unexpectedly. Blaze responds before I fully ask, stride lengthening, shoulder cutting just enough to guide the flow back where it belongs.
Eli doesn't need to look again. But when I glance up a moment later, I catch the briefest curve at the corner of his mouth before he turns forward.
Not a smile. Not quite.
But something.
My chest goes warm.
We crest the first rise cleanly. The cattle hesitate at the change in grade, hooves testing the slope, then press on, the sound of them thickening into something solid and inevitable. I feel the buzz then, low and steady. Not adrenaline. Focus.
The quiet satisfaction of doing something that requires my whole body and leaves no room for doubt.
A young steer breaks formation near the edge.
It happens fast. Head down. Panic flickering through the line behind it.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, already moving.
I lean Blaze into the turn harder than I plan, dust stinging my eyes as we cut across the front. For a split second, I think I've misjudged it. Think I've pushed too far, too fast. Think Eli will call out.
Nothing.
Blaze surges anyway, responding like we're one thought split in two. I lock my leg in, thigh burning as I hold the line, breath tight in my chest.
