The number 127 glows on the screen. My fingers hover over the trackpad. Three months ago, I would've been triaging by priority, fingers flying, dopamine spiking with every cleared notification. Now I just stare at the number until it blurs, and my hands won't move.
Scrolling through, most are automated reports and CC chains I don't need to read. A few are from colleagues asking about the Harmon merger. One is from Diane.
Sloane, how are you doing? The team misses you, but don't rush back. Take the time you need.
My cursor hovers over the email. For a long moment, I just stare at it. Then I close the laptop without responding.
I look out the window at the hills rolling into the distance, the mesquite and live oak catching the afternoon light. Cash is visible in the distance, working a young horse in the round pen. He’s patient as always, giving it space to figure it out on its own.
My phone sits on the table beside the laptop, silent and waiting.
I pick it up. Open my email app. Find Diane's message.
My thumb hovers over it for three seconds. Then I delete it without responding.
I don't open the next one, just stand there with the taste of him still on my lips and the ghost of his hands still on my skin, and for the first time in seventeen years, I don't feel guilty for choosing myself.
Outside, he looks up from the round pen and sees me in the window. Even from this distance, I can see the question in his posture.
I don't wave or signal anything, only hold his gaze across fifty yards of Texas dust and let him see that I'm still here.
Still thinking.
Still his.
Chapter six
Cash
The mare’s ears flick forward, then pin back. Testing me. Waiting to see if I'll flinch when she tosses her head and pulls against the lead rope hard enough to burn my palm through the leather.
I don't flinch but hold steady and let her work through whatever's making her skittish, my shoulders burning from two hours of this same dance. Sweat runs down my spine despite the morning cool, and my hands ache from gripping the rope. I should've moved on to fence repair by now, but my body needs the repetition, needs something to do besides reach for my phone and text Sloane for the fourth time today.
The mare settles. I reward her with a stroke down her neck, feeling the tension drain from her muscles, and lead her back to her stall. My phone sits on the tack room shelf where I left it, screen dark.
I grab it anyway, and tap the screen.
Sloane's name lights up with a new text:Can we skip the afternoon ride? I need to handle some work stuff.
The words steal my air. I stare at them until they blur, my thumb hovering over the keyboard while my pulse beats against my ribs. I want to typeWhat work stuff? You're supposed to be resting. I’d like to show up at her cabin and demand answers.
Instead:Sure. Let me know if you need anything.
Her response comes fast:Thanks.
One word, polite and distant. Everything we've built over the past week is compressed into six letters that feel like a door closing.
I set the phone down before I crack the screen and grab the bridle that needs mending. I thread the needle with shaking hands, pulling the leather tight. My body knows this work, can do it without thinking, which leaves my brain free to spiral.
She's pulling away. She won't hold my gaze. Her shoulders going rigid every time I step close. Yesterday in town, she was mine. She said it out loud in my truck, let me claim her in front of everyone, and melted into the words in the hayloft. Now she's retreating back into that armor, and fighting will send her running. Waiting will lose her anyway.
I'm out of good options.
The bridle's fixed. I set it aside and reach for another, but my hands won't cooperate. I sit there at the workbench, useless and shaking.
My phone buzzes. Alban:How's it going?
The question makes my teeth grind together. I respond:She's pulling away.
