I tried to ignore it. Threw myself into the kind of work that left me too tired to think. Spent long hours in the arena with Juniper, running drills until my shoulders burned and the mare's coat gleamed with sweat. I fixed the gate on the south pasture that had been hanging crooked for months. I cleaned out the tack room, made lists of supplies I didn't really need, and even tilled the raised garden beds my mom wanted to plant. I kept moving the way I always did when something was bothering me.
Staying busy didn’t fix a damn thing. I'd feed the horses at dawn then drive through town hoping I might see her sitting by the window at the café. I'd work Juniper through barrel patterns and notice the empty space where Waverly had stood that first morning, her arms crossed, watching with those green eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing. I'd stop in at the Merc then take the long way back without meaning to, avoiding the turnoff that led toward Kincaid land.
Torin noticed. He didn't say much about it, just watched me with that knowing look that made my jaw clench too tight. Ruby had stopped asking questions after I'd picked up supplies at the mercantile and walked out before she could start. Even Ethan had the sense to keep his mouth shut when we'd crossed paths at the feed store.
The whole valley knew. Probably had opinions about it too, the way small towns always did. But nobody pushed, and I didn't offer explanations I couldn't give.
I avoided the cabin. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first. I just found reasons not to go that direction when I rode fence lines. Took different routes when I needed to check water troughs in the high pastures. Avoided the old logging road that cut through the trees toward the place where everything between us had lived.
Distance would make it easier. Avoiding it would keep everything contained, the way I'd always kept things contained. Control meant boundaries. Boundaries meant nothing if they fell apart.
Except distance didn't help. And not going just made the pull stronger, like trying to hold back a horse that had already decided to run.
A week passed. Then another. The work continued. Seasons didn't care about personal complications. I had a two-year-old colt to start, clients coming to look at horses I had in training, and a reputation to maintain. The Hollister legacy didn't take a break because I’d met a Kincaid woman that made me want too much.
But the pain didn't fade. It settled in, working its way into the spaces between things like the gap between jobs, the quiet after the horses were fed, and the long, lonely nights when there was nothing left to do but sit with the decision I’d made.
Finally, on a Thursday afternoon when I couldn’t take it anymore, I saddled Juniper and rode out toward the cabin. Not because I wanted to. But because I thought if I could step inside and say goodbye to everything we’d shared, that the pain might finally start to fade.
The trail wound through pines and aspen, familiar terrain I could ride blind. Juniper moved steady underneath me, her gait even and relaxed now that her hip had healed. The mare had always liked this route. With open ground and good footing, it was the kind of ride that let her stretch out when I asked.
I didn't ask today. Just kept her to a walk, putting off our arrival even as I headed toward it.
The cabin appeared through the trees exactly like I'd left it. Small, weathered, the kind of structure that had stood for decades and would probably stand for decades more. Nothing looked different from the outside. It had the same worn steps, the same door with the handle that stuck slightly, and the same window reflecting the afternoon light.
I dismounted and tied Juniper to the hitching post that didn't get much use anymore. She lowered her head, content to stand in the shade while I did whatever I'd come here to do. I stepped inside and stopped. The air felt thicker. Like something had been decided here, and the weight of it hadn't lifted yet.
Everything looked the same on the surface. The bed was still unmade from the last time we'd been here together. The coffee mugs still sat on the counter. But the stillness wasn't neutral anymore. It pressed against my chest and made it difficult to pull in a breath.
I walked further in, my boots loud on the old wood floor. Then I scanned the room without knowing what I expected to find. Evidence of her leaving, maybe. Some sign that she'd been here after our last time, that she'd come back to?—
A box sat on the table, right in the middle where I couldn't miss it.
I crossed the room and opened the lid. There were dozens of letters. They were tied in a bundle with a faded ribbon. The paper had yellowed with age, the ink still legible but slightly faded. I pulled one free and carefully slid the paper out of the envelope.
Dearest—
The ranch keeps me longer than expected. Father wants the new fence line completed before winter, and the work goes slower than planned. I won't make it to the canyon this week. Can you meet next Thursday instead? Same time, same place where no one asks questions we can't answer.
All my love,
—H.M. Kincaid
I stared at the initials. H.M. Kincaid.
I set the first letter down and reached for another bundle. Then another. The dates spanned years—1908 through 1912. Some were short and just held meeting times or small details about horses or weather. Others ran longer, the formality slipping into something closer. I kept reading.
The valley looks different when I ride with you. Like it belongs to both of us instead of being split down the middle by names we didn't choose.
Father asked where I've been spending my afternoons. I told him I was riding fence lines. Not entirely a lie—I just didn't mention whose land I was crossing.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like if we didn't have to meet in places where no one could see us. If we could just ride into town together and let people think what they'd think. But that's not the world we live in, is it?
The last one sat at the bottom of the box. The paper felt thinner than the others, like it had been handled more. The ink had faded in places, but the words still came through clear.
Dearest—
I have not known a moment’s peace since your last letter reached me. There is not a word in it I have not turned over more times than I care to admit, yet I find myself no closer to an answer that would do either of us any good.
