Page 15 of Wild Sanctuary

“Appreciate it.”

We spend the morning on the north fence line, patching what we can and flagging three posts that need full replacing. The Elk Creek boundary has been on the list since before the snow melted. Colt brought it up again yesterday, same as he does every few weeks. He’s not wrong. There just aren’t enough hours. Once the summer herd is moved, it’s next.

We move a section of cattle to fresh pasture, and the animals complain the whole way but that’s nothing new. At the creek crossing, Boone, my chestnut quarter horse, walks straight through without breaking stride. Rhett’s mare, Thyme, a dappled gray with more opinions than sense, plants her hooves at the bank and refuses to budge.

Rhett swears under his breath.

“Need a hand?” I ask, not bothering to hide the grin.

“She’s testin’ me.”

I attempt and fail to keep the smile from my voice. “Seems like she’s winnin’.”

He gives me a look that would curdle milk, then dismounts, walks into the creek up to his shins, and leads her across by hand. She follows him like a lamb.

Of course she does.

“Not a godforsaken word,” he mutters when he swings back into the saddle, boots squelching.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We ride the next mile in silence. I’m still smiling and he knows it. Neither of us mentions it.

I should be thinking about the fence line. Or the herd.

Instead I’m thinking about the way Daisy looked at me yesterday.

By the time I ride back into the barnyard, the sun is low and I’ve earned my dinner. The lights are already on in the main house.

Where Daisy is.

I pull Boone to a stop outside the barn. Take my time dismounting. Then I spend longer than necessary cooling him down, brushing until his coat gleams and he’s giving me looks that clearly say he’d like to be turned out now, thank you very much.

Afterwards, I check tack that doesn’t need checking. I reorganize the feed room. I do everything I can think of to delay the inevitable moment when I have to walk into that house and pretend I’m fine.

As though putting it off can make a bit of difference.

Finally, there’s not a damn thing left to do.

Shit.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession, which can only mean the Hartley Hellions group chat. Which means someone’s either dying or Colt’s done something stupid.

I pull it out.

JUNE

Dinner in 20. Daisy’s here. Where’s everyone?

COLT

Already in the kitchen.

JUNE

Stealing my good cheese is not “in the kitchen.”

COLT