“No,” she says, a sad smile touching her lips. “I was thinking... I wish Blossom was still around. I wish I could takeher out.” She looks at the floor, her eyes distant. “She knew me. She knew how I rode. We didn’t need words. We just... went.”
The mention of the old mare hangs in the air. We all remember Blossom.
“She was a good horse,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” Saramaria whispers. “She was the best.”
She stands there for a moment, lost in a memory I can’t see. Then she shakes herself, the wall slamming back into place.
“I’m going to go change,” she says. “If you guys are making a supply list for the repairs, I want to see it.”
She turns and walks down the hall toward her room, Wellsy trotting faithfully behind her.
I look at Knox.
“We’re doing it, then?” Knox asks.
“We’re doing it,” I say.
Knox picks up the notice. “Eighteen thousand dollars. We’re going to be eating ramen for a year.”
“Probably,” I say.
But as I look down the hall where she disappeared, I know it doesn’t matter. The relief on her face when I said we’d handle it... that was worth more than eighteen grand.
We’re in trouble. We all know it. We’re investing in a sinking ship, a woman who wants us gone. But watching her walk away, shoulders slumped under the weight of her grandfather’s mistakes, I know there isn’t a single place I’d rather be.
Boone
The metal latch is cold against my palms, slick with the freezing rain. I work the screwdriver into the rusted groove, forcing the bolt to turn. It protests with a screech, but finally, it snaps shut. I test the gate, shaking it hard. It holds.
The lower pasture is secure. For now.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, but the denim is already soaked through. It’s been raining for days. The sky is a relentless sheet of gray, pressing down on the valley, turning the world into a mud pit.
The air carries the scent of her, of all of us, mixing into a cloud that makes it hard to think.
I need to move. I need to run.
I whistle, the sound cutting through the downpour. Midnight emerges from the shelter of the trees. He’s huge, a black mountain against the gray landscape. He tosses his head, his mane plastered to his neck. He feels the restless energy rolling off me. He knows what it means.
I swing into the saddle. The leather is wet, but my grip is sure. I don’t need a saddle pad today. I need contact.
“Let’s go, old man,” I murmur.
I don’t use spurs. I don’t need them. I squeeze with my legs, and we explode into motion.
We fly across the meadow. The mud sucks at Midnight’s hooves, but he powers through it, finding traction in the slick grass. The wind hits my face, icy needles that sting my skin, but I welcome it. It clears the fog in my brain.
We crest the hill and drop into the valley. I let him have his head. He stretches out, his gait lengthening into a ground-eating gallop. The world blurs—green grass, brown earth, gray sky. There’s only the rhythm of his hooves beating against the ground and the thunder of my own heart.
This is the only time the noise stops. The debt, the fines, Saramaria, the sheer impossibility of our situation—it all fades away. There’s only the speed. The power. The control.
We run for maybe twenty minutes, until Midnight’s breathing becomes heavy and steam curls from his shoulders in great clouds. I slow him to a trot, guiding him toward the creek. The water is high, rushing and brown, churning with runoff.
I pull him to a stop near the bank. He dips his head, drinking greedily. I sit tall in the saddle, breathing hard, the cold air burning my lungs.
This is my church. This is where I come to pray.
