I hear it before I see it—the low roll of thunder out past the ridge, the wind picking up hard enough to rattle the barn doors in their tracks.
By the time I step outside, the sky’s gone mean.
Heavy clouds. Sharp air. That strange stillness right before everything breaks.
I glance toward the guest house and cabins, thinking of Dakota before I can stop myself.
That alone puts me in a worse mood.
The horses feel it too. A few of them are already restless in their stalls, stomping and shifting, ears twitching at every crack of sound in the distance.
Storms do that. Bring nerves to the surface. Make everything raw.
I move down the aisle, checking latches, running a hand over warm necks, speaking low where I need to. Routine helps. So does work. It keeps my head clear.
Or it usually does.
The barn door opens behind me with a rush of wind and rain.
I turn, already irritated.
Then I see her.
Dakota stands in the doorway, soaked through in under a second, hair damp around her face, breath quick from the run across the yard.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
She pushes the door shut behind her and leans against it for a second. “I saw the weather. Thought you might need help.”
I stare at her. Rainwater slides from the ends of her hair onto her shoulders. Her shirt clings in ways I do not need to notice.
“You ran through a storm for this?”
“For you,” she says, like it’s obvious.
That lands somewhere deep and unwelcome. I look away first.
“The horses are worked up,” I say. “Stay out of the aisle if they start kicking.”
She nods once, going quiet. She doesn’t even smile, serious now, like this work matters.
That should make this easier. It doesn’t.
Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to shake dust loose from the beams. A mare two stalls down lets out a sharp, anxious whinny and bangs against the wood.
Dakota flinches.
I’m across the space between us before I think about it.
“It’s alright,” I say, one hand settling at her elbow. “That one startles easy. Rescued from the auction block six months ago. Tough past.”
Her eyes lift to mine. Too close. “Tough past, huh?”
I nod before I can stop myself. My hand tightens, savoring her warmth. “Take that bucket,” I say, stepping back. “Fresh water first. Slow movements. Don’t rush anything.”
She grabs the bucket and moves where I point her, steady even with the thunder still rolling. She learns like she listens… with her whole attention.
I hate how much I like that.
