Two horses were saddled near the tree line.
“No trucks,” he said before I could ask. “Too loud. Too easy to track. We ride the back wash, cut through the brush, and nobody sees a thing unless they’re looking for ghosts.”
“I feel like a ghost and I hate horses.”
Dylan glanced at me. “Not tonight and then you’ll have to ride with me again.”
He helped me mount because my pride had finally met a staircase it couldn’t climb before swinging up behind me. His body warm and solid at my back.
I felt all the things. His hard thighs mine slightly on top of his. His strong arms holding me against his chest; his biceps gently brushing under my breasts. The tiny nerve endings feeling like a live wire.
“Relax,” he murmured near my ear. “I know better.”
I wasn’t sure which part of that sentence hurt. Maybe I wanted freedom to love and want who I wanted. Without the club, a patch or my family bloodline in the way.
The horse led us out through the trees.
The ranch disappeared behind us by inches, swallowed by darkness and branches and the soft, steady rhythm of hooves on dirt. The world narrowed to the horse beneath us, Dylan behind me, the night ahead, and the distant lights of Santa Fe scattered below the hills like somebody had dropped jewels across the valley.
We didn’t speak for a long time.
That suited me.
Words felt too heavy.
The path climbed gradually, winding through scrub brush and piñon, over rocky patches that made my body ache with every careful step. Dylan must have felt me tense, because one hand left the reins just long enough to steady my waist.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good answer.”
A breath slipped out of me. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“Constantly. I just don’t let it ruin my face.”
“That’s tragic. Your face is your only redeeming quality.”
His chuckle was quiet against my hair. “Careful, Beautiful. Compliments like that go straight to my head.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then the hill opened.
The cemetery was small. Older than I expected. Not polished. Not pretty in the way rich people made grief pretty. It was tucked high above the town, surrounded by scrub and stone and a low iron fence that had rusted red in places. The markers stood crooked under the moon, some pale, some dark, some worn nearly smooth by wind and time.
Below us, Santa Fe glowed.
The town looked soft from up here.
Forgiving.
That almost made me laugh.
Dylan slid down, then reached up for me. I hated needing help. I hated the way my legs trembled when he lowered me to the ground.
But he didn’t comment.
