I hug him fiercely, breathing in the familiar scent of my brother—hay, and expensive cologne, and the faint trace of cigarettes he thinks no one knows about. "Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder.
He squeezes me once, then steps back, gesturing toward the hidden pocket doors of the library that lead to the kitchen, and a back staircase that will take me upstairs. "Better hurry," Colt says. "A man has doubts after three years inside without a word."
I blow out a breath. But just shake my head and leave.
I wanted to visit. I wanted to write. He told me absolutely not. If I came to visit, he would not accept it. If I wrote him letters, he'd sell them to other prisoners for commissary money. Which I know for a fact he would absolutely not do, but the threat was enough.
He didn’t want me to visit. He didn’t want me to write.
I had to respect that.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I move with quiet urgency. I strip off the designer outfit—the cream pencil skirt, the tangerine blouse hand-sewn by some woman in Paris who probably hates me, the white Lucchese boots that have never seen actual ranch work.
I shed my engagement party skin like a snake outgrowing its constraints.
From the back of my closet, behind the camera-ready clothes, I pull out a simple summer dress—pale blue cotton with a pattern of tiny white flowers, somethin’ left over from more carefree years.
I wash the makeup from my face, scrubbing until my skin feels raw and real. The diamond ring catches on my washcloth, a reminder to take it off.
I place it on the vanity, where it glitters accusingly in the lamplight. Three carats. Flawless. Cold as ice against my skin, even after two weeks of wearing it.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror—no longer the polished Ashby heiress, but someone younger, freer, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. I look like the girl who used to climb through grain silo doors to feel alive.
I look like myself.
Then, I leave. Down the back stairs, out the back door, slidin’ into shadows as the few people still here get too loud to notice a woman sneaking away in the middle of the night.
Inside the barn I relish the smell of alfalfa hay, oiled leather, and memories.
At the end stall, Cassia—my massive warmblood mare—raises her head in greeting, ears pricking forward with interest.It’s late, what are you doin’ here, those ears ask.
She nickers at me. A rumble that is so warm and real, it calms my racin’ heartbeat and forces me to let out a breath. I place my hand on the side of her face, smiling. “No time for a saddle,” I tell her, reaching for the bridle hanging on a hook next to her stall. Then I enter, slip the bit in her mouth and the crown over her ears. Then I lead her down the walkway, her hooves clip-clopping in the silent night.
But I don’t care if anyone hears me now.
They couldn’t stop me even if they did.
Once outside, I walk her over to the mounting platform, swing up onto her broad back, and grip her sides with my lower legs as she dances sideways. She knows this isn't a normal ride—there's something wild in the air tonight, something that smells like freedom.
We start at a trot, then break into a canter as we reach the first pasture. The fence looms ahead—five rails of dark wood tall enough to keep stallions in.
But Cassia was a three-star eventer back in her prime and charges forward when she sees the question I'm askin’. I lean back, feeling her gather beneath me. Powerful muscles bunching as we approach. Then we're airborne, flyin’ over the fence like it's nothing but mist, landing on the other side with a soft thud.
I laugh out loud, the sound carried away by the wind as we race across the pasture, across the night, toward the silo.
Toward Legion.
Toward the only real thing I've ever wanted.
This man.
The creek bed welcomes Cassia's hooves with a symphony of crunches, each step breaking the night's silence. Moonlight catches on the cottonwoods, turning their leaves to silver coins that flutter and whisper above me. The path is exactly as I remember it—worn by water, and hooves, by two teenagers who couldn't keep their hands off each other.
If this is a dream, I'm gonna let it kill me slow.
I've been dyin’ piece by piece for three years anyway—might as well go out honest.
Around the bend, the silo appears—cold, silver, still standing after all these years. It rises from the prairie like a sentinel, like it's been waiting just for me. The metal gleams under the moon, a beacon I've been avoiding and craving in equal measure.
