His eyes flash, then. The first real thing I’ve seen in his face since I woke.
Good. Let him feel some of this, too.
“And I was foolish. Stupid.” My voice shakes, though I fight to control it. I step past him before he can answer and walk out of the barn into evening air that feels too cool on my skin.
I don’t stop until I reach my cabin.
Only then do I let myself sit on the edge of the bed and press both hands flat against my thighs, anchoring myself there.
My pride is intact. That matters. Even if the rest of me feels scraped raw.
I avoidthe barn for the rest of the night and then the next day. Wild Vista Ranch is big enough to disappear in if you want to. Trails winding through scrub oak and bluebonnet patches. Guest cabins tucked far enough apart to feel private. Open fields where horses graze under the sun like they’ve never known fear.
Usually, I’d love a place like this. Today, though, it feels too full of him.
Every fence line reminds me of his hands. Every low rustle in the wind takes me back to the sound of his voice in the dark.
By late afternoon, I give up pretending a long walk is going to fix anything and head toward the paddocks instead.
Buddy is out. The same one from the barn. The half-broken, half-healed one with wary eyes and a body that still expects pain before kindness.
He stands near the fence, ears twitching when I approach. “Hey, sweetheart,” I murmur.
I rest my arms on the top rail and watch him for a minute.
He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t bolt either. That feels about right.
“You and I are having a week,” I tell him.
He flicks an ear in my direction. A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Small. Thin. Real enough.
“I should’ve known better,” I say. “That’s the worst part. Ididknow better.”
The horse lowers his head to nose at the grass, unconcerned.
Lucky him.
Boots sound on the dirt behind me. I know who it is before I turn.
Levi stops a few feet away, hat low, shoulders set. Every line of him says distance even standing this close.
I face the paddock again. “Do you always sneak up on people?” I ask.
“You heard me.”
“I heard boots.”
Silence.
He clears his throat, Adam’s apple working. “You didn’t come by this afternoon.”
I close my eyes for a second.
That’s what he came to say?
“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”
Another stretch of quiet. The gelding glances up, then goes back to grazing. Lucky him again.
