"Fair enough. Now go get your girl."
He hangs up. As I stand there holding the phone, his words echo.Go get your girl. Like it's simple. Like all those years didn't happen. Like I haven't spent every single day wondering where she was, who she was with, if she ever thought about me.
After pocketing the phone, I pick up both mugs. The sky's now that blue-gray just before sunrise. I head toward the cabins, boots crunching on gravel, steam rising from the coffee in the cool morning air.
Her porch light is still on. At the bottom of the steps, I stop and look up at the door. Behind it, she's probably pacing. Probably trying to talk herself into running. I know her. The way she moves when she's scared. The way she builds walls to keep people out.
Up the steps. Two knocks.
The door opens fast, like she was standing right there. She's dressed for riding in jeans, boots, and a long-sleeve shirt that hangs loose on her. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail, and she's not wearing makeup. She looks exhausted and beautiful, and her arms are crossed tightly over her chest like she's holding herself together.
I hold out the coffee. "Black, splash of milk."
She stares at the mug but doesn't take it. "Remind me again how you remembered that?"
"I remember everything, Sloane."
Her throat works. She takes the coffee with both hands and wraps her fingers around it like she needs the heat, but her shoulders stay rigid. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably."
"I should request someone else."
"You could." I set my mug on the porch railing and step closer. Not touching. Just close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. "But you won't."
Her eyes flash. "You don't know me anymore."
"Don't I?" Another step. "You're holding that coffee like it's a shield. You've got your arms wrapped so tight it’s making your shoulders tense. You're terrified right now. Not of me. Of what happens if you let yourself feel this. You've spent seventeen years building walls, and yesterday they all came down the second you saw me."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Sets the coffee down on the railing with shaking hands. "You don't understand—”
"I understand you're afraid that if you stop running, you'll have to admit you're exhausted."
Her shoulders drop a fraction at the words. Her pupils dilate, and she takes a half-step back, one hand coming up to press against her sternum.
"Drink your coffee," I say quietly. "We're burning daylight."
She takes a long sip, her eyes never leaving mine. When she lowers the mug, there's something different in her expression. Not softness. Not yet. But the armor's cracked.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"You'll see."
I head down the steps and toward the barn. Behind me, I hear her door close, her boots on the porch, the small sound shemakes when she realizes I'm not waiting. She catches up as I reach the barn, slightly out of breath.
"Are you always this bossy in the morning?" she asks.
"Only with you."
Inside the barn, the familiar scent of hay and leather and horse sweat grounds me. I saddle two horses, Ranger for me, a gentle mare named Fancy for her. She watches me work, sipping her coffee, and I'm hyperaware of her gaze tracking my hands on the leather and the way I check the girth twice.
"I remember how to ride," she says.
"I know." Leading Fancy out, I hold the reins while Sloane mounts. She swings up easily, muscle memory taking over, and settles into the saddle like she never left. "But it's been a while."
"Seventeen years."
The number sits between us. Mounting Ranger, I nudge him toward the trail that leads to the ridge. Sloane falls in beside me, and we ride in silence through the gray dawn. The air's cool and sharp, smelling of sage and dust and the promise of heat later.
