Harlan. It fits him perfectly, strong, no-nonsense, a little bit country-song tragic in the best way. “Sunny Caldwell. Newest barn hand at Timber Creek Barn & Co., apparently. Or I will be if I don’t get fired for traumatizing the livestock on day one.”
He makes another one of those low sounds. I decide it’s his version of a chuckle.
We reach a wider stretch of trail and he eases us to a stop. Biscuit stands quietly now, sides still heaving but no longer frantic. Harlan swings down first, then reaches up for me. Both handson my waist this time. He lifts me like I’m made of spun sugar, setting me gently on my feet. My knees wobble, partly from the adrenaline, mostly from the way his fingers linger a beat too long, like he’s making sure I am real.
I brush snow off my coat, suddenly aware of how bright and puffy and me I look next to his rugged everything. “So, uh, do you rescue damsels in distress often? Because that was impressively efficient. Ten out of ten. Would nearly die again just to see the encore.”
Harlan’s expression doesn’t change, but I swear the corner of his mouth twitches. “Not usually. Horses spook sometimes. You’re lucky I was checking fences up here.”
“Lucky me,” I murmur, and I mean it in every possible way. My cheeks are burning hotter than the embarrassment warrants. He’s staring at me now, really staring, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of creature just fell into his lap. I beam up at him, all teeth and nervous sunshine, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous. I sparkle harder to compensate for the internal screaming.
He tugs Biscuit’s reins, leading her alongside his horse. “Cabin’s not far. You need to warm up. Get that leg looked at.”
I had not even noticed the twinge in my ankle until he mentioned it. Probably from when I lost the stirrup. “It’s fine. Totally walkable. I once hiked six blocks in heels during a flash flood. This is nothing.”
Harlan gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me for a second. Protective grump mode: activated. It does fluttery things to my stomach. “You’re coming with me.”
Not a question. A statement. Delivered in that deep, rumbly voice that makes my knees consider quitting their job entirely. I should probably be alarmed at how quickly I’m nodding, but something about Harlan feels safe. Even with the grumpy exterior and the ex-military vibes radiating off him like heat from a woodstove.
We start walking. Well, he walks, I limp along beside him trying not to wince. He notices immediately, of course. Without a word he stops, crouches down, and checks my ankle with careful hands. Big, calloused fingers gentle against my boot. The touch zings straight up my leg and settles somewhere much higher and more inappropriate.
“Swelling already,” he mutters. “Ride with me.”
Before I can protest, or enthusiastically agree, he’s lifting me again, settling me in front of him on his big black horse. His chest presses to my back, arms caging me in as he takes the reins. I fit against him like I was designed for this exact spot. My head tucks just under his chin. If I turned my face, my lips would brush his throat.
Down, girl. You’ve known him six minutes. Do not start planning the wedding on Wedding Cake Mountain.
But the thought makes me giggle. Harlan’s arm tightens fractionally around my middle. “Something funny?”
“Just thinking how this is the most romantic near-death experience a girl could ask for,” I tease, voice light and bubbly even as my heart thunders. “Complete with tall, dark, and brooding rescuer. My book club ladies would eat this up. ‘Sunny and the Grumpy Cowboy’, it’s got bestseller written all over it.”
He huffs. Actual air moving my curls. Progress. “Not much of a reader.”
“Liar. I bet you’ve got a whole shelf of well-worn Louis L’Amour paperbacks hidden somewhere. Or maybe secret romance novels under your mattress. No judgment. I’m a sucker for a happy ending.”
The horse moves at a steady walk, rocking us gently together. Every shift presses me closer to him. I can feel the heat of his body seeping through my coat, the solid strength of his thighs bracketing mine. My mind’s a whirlwind of romcom tropes: forced proximity, one bed (please let there be a one-bed situation), grumpy-sunshine perfection.
We crest a rise and Haven 7 comes into view below, a cluster of sturdy cabins nestled against the mountain, smoke curling from chimneys, horses in a snowy paddock, the main lodge glowing warm and welcoming. It looks like a postcard. Like the place where broken girls go to heal and maybe find the kind of love that sticks.
Harlan’s voice rumbles against my ear. “You staying at the Timber Creek B&B?”
“Supposed to. New barn help. I’m great with animals. Terrible with directions. Excellent at naming every horse after baked goods.” I tilt my head back to grin at him. Our faces are inches apart. His eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest second before snapping back up. The air between us crackles like static before a thunderstorm.
He felt that too. I know he did.
“Name doesn’t suit you,” he says after a beat.
“Sunny? It’s because I’m relentlessly cheerful. My mom said I came out smiling and never stopped. Even when life hands me lemons, I make lemon meringue pie and invite everyone over.”
His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “Explains the pink coat.”
I gasp in mock offense. “This coat is iconic. It’s my emotional support outerwear. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And it goes with everything. Who doesn’t love pink?”
He doesn’t reply, but his arm stays snug around me the whole way down the trail. When we reach the edge of the compound, a few people wave. Harlan gives them curt nods, classic strong-silent-type, but doesn’t loosen his hold until we’re right outside a neat cabin with a wide porch and a sign that just says “Harlan” burned into the wood.
He dismounts first, then reaches for me. This time when my feet hit the ground my ankle protests loudly. I hiss, and suddenly I’m being scooped up again, cradled against his chest like a damsel in a western.
“Inside,” he says. Gruff. Final. But his hands are gentle as he carries me up the steps and shoulders the door open.
