When the last of the papers are gone, Carrson pushes to his feet and glances down at me. “One last ride?”
He holds out his hand, and I take it, a little in awe that he doesn’t flinch, and even more when he doesn’t let go. Not when we stand. Not when we walk. Not even when he doesn’t need to. Carrson holds on all the way to the stables.
Soon, our horses gallop side by side, their hooves kicking up chunks of dirt as we tear through the forest.
“Race you!” Carrson shouts, already leaning forward, urging his mount faster.
“You’re on,” I kick lightly at my mare’s sides. She snorts, nostrils flaring, muscles flexing and releasing, surging forward as if she wants to win as badly as I do.
The wind claws at my hair, the world blurs into streaks of green and gold. Sunlight flashes off the lake beside us, dazzling. In that moment, it’s just us. Speed and the wild, reckless joy of it. The world reduced to the pounding of hooves and our laughter.
I see it then.
A version of us untouched by everything that came before. A world where Remi never died. Where Carrson was raised by someone kind. No power plays. No lines drawn in the sand.
It warms me, even though I know we aren’t those people. We were never going to be them. Still, I tuck it away, this fragile moment, keeping it for myself. Something to hold onto for later.
By the time we slow to a trot and then tie the horses up, the spell of motion fades, replaced by the whisper of the forest. Spring has set in and tiny clumps of wildflowers, yellow and white, grow in the shade of ancient oaks. They release a heady perfume into the air.
Feeling whimsical, I pluck one and hand it to Carrson. “For you, sir,” I say with an exaggerated bow, stifling a grin.
He takes it, twirls the stem between his fingers, then leans forward to tuck it behind my ear. “I think it looks better on you,” he murmurs, and my cheeks warm.
His eyes follow me, lingering, as I set out our lunch and my sketch pad.
After we eat, I work on my picture of him. I’m done with the part where he needs to sit. Now it’s all playing with shadow and light. Coloring in some spaces and leaving others gray.
Carrson digs into the bag he brought and pulls out a long coil of rope, thicker at one end, almost like a handle.
“What’s that?” I ask.
In answer, he lifts his hand and the rope uncoils. My smile dims when I see it’s a whip, long and speckled with darker areas I call dirt but might be something else.
“It was in my father’s office,” Carrson says, raising it. He flicks it through the air and the tip whistles close enough to make me jump. It hits a tree close by with a loudcrack.
A shiver runs through me, part fear, part thrill.
“Shockingly, he never used it on me,” Carrson says it so casually, as if being spared was a rare mercy, that I feel the sting of tears at the back of my eyes. I swallow them down quickly, not wanting him to see.
He draws the whip back to him, gathers it into his hands.
His eyes slide over to me. “Becky.” His voice is mild, but my muscles instantly go tense, knotted, an involuntary brace against whatever comes next.
“What?” I ask, even though I already know.
It’s in the way he watches me from the corner of his eyes, how he’s already balanced on the ball of his feet, energy held in reserve but ready to explode, a predator about to strike.
“You went someplace you weren’t supposed to.”
I stumble to my feet, “Wait. No—no, I—”
The words die the second he turns fully toward me. I stand there, silent, knees locked so I don’t tremble.
He nods, like I made the correct choice.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Then, almost conversational, “I think it’s time for you to run.”
He grins, a wide, hungry smile. “But understand something,” he adds, voice low, “When I catch you—”
