I’d grown up an hour from here and had never once seen it like this.
"You doing okay back there?" Sawyer called.
"I'm fine."
"You're quiet."
"I'm enjoying the view."
He glanced back. "Sure you are."
I was, actually. I just wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of saying so without a fight.
Bishop moved under me, steady and unhurried, his ears swiveling at something in the brush to our left—a bird, probably, flushed by our passing. I felt him consider it and then let it go, and I let myself go with him, the way Sawyer had been drilling into me for five weeks. Stop anticipating. Stop managing. Feel what the horse feels.
Easier in theory than in practice.
Easier, lately, than it used to be.
The trail dropped as we got closer to the creek, the ground changing underfoot from dry grass to exposed rock. I focused on the sounds around me, the rush of water up ahead. Holt Creek was pretty, sure…but it wasn’t nearly big enough to produce that much sound.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” I called ahead.
Sawyer glanced over his shoulder. “You’re gonna love it.”
I huffed. “That’s not an answer!”
He just rode a little faster.
Asshole.
But then the trees opened up and I promptly forgot to be annoyed.
The creek ran fast over flat limestone shelves, thin sheets of water catching the winter light before dropping into a wide still pool below. The rock was white and grey and faintly amber where the water had been running over it for a thousand years. The far bank reflected in the pool. The sky reflected in the pool. Everything doubled and quiet in the middle of all that motion.
I pulled Bishop up without being asked.
Just looked.
"Worth the ride?" Sawyer said. He'd stopped Redbird a few feet ahead, half-turned in the saddle, watching my face.
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not smug." The corner of his mouth pulled. "I'm gratified."
"Same thing."
He swung down from Redbird and looped the reins over a low branch, easy and automatic, and came to take Bishop's bridle while I dismounted. I'd gotten better at it—didn't need his hands at my waist to get down safely anymore, which was a point of pride and a minor disappointment in equal measure.
We tied both horses in the shade and Sawyer pulled the saddlebags down. I spread the blanket on a flat shelf of limestone above the pool while he dealt with the wine. The rock was cold through the wool but the sun was on us, direct and winter-thin, and out of the wind it was almost warm.
Almost.
I pulled my jacket tighter and accepted the plastic cup he held out—because of course there were plastic cups, packed alongside the wine and the cheese and the rest of whatever Peggy had sent along when she'd heard we were riding out. Which was all of it. Apparently.
"Your aunt sent enough food for a week," I said.
"She always does." He sat down beside me, close enough that his shoulder pressed into mine. "Forty years of feeding people at that ranch. She can't scale it down."
