Page 25 of Art of Love

Chapter Eight

For the next few days, Abe worked with the horses from sunup to sundown. It was the kind of bone-deep exhaustion he welcomed—honest work, no cameras, no expectations beyond patience and grit. Just him, the salt in the air, and two damn stubborn horses.

Stormy had, after the third day, taken to the saddle like she’d been waiting for it all her life. She had a smooth gait, smart eyes, and a responsive nature that made riding her feel like a dance. He found himself smiling more when he was out with her, letting the miles stretch behind them as they galloped along the dunes and into the edges of the pine trails.

Blaze was another story. The gelding fought the bit like it had personally offended him. No wonder he’d been up for auction. Every ride was a tug-of-war with head tossing, feet stomping, and teeth flashing. Abe had the bruises to prove it. Still, he saw the fire in the horse’s eyes, the kind that reminded him of himself when he’d first picked up a guitar with too much to say and no idea how to say it.

That morning, sweat dampened his shirt as he stepped out of the round pen, brushing a hand down Blaze’s neck while the horse huffed through his nose, then finally settling after he gave him a carrot. Abe led him back towards the paddock, letting the tension bleed from his muscles.

He didn’t hear her at first over the distant waves or the wind that was blowing steadily from the cliffs. He smelled her soft perfume, springtime flowers, and turned. She was there, walking up from the path that led to the beach, the sun catching on her loose hair, the breeze tugging at the edges of her pale blue shirt.

Dylan.

She stopped at the fence, one hand resting on the top rail like she’d always belonged there.

“I saw you out here,” she called. “Decided to come up and say hi.”

He blinked, surprised by how fast his heart jumped at the sight of her. “You walked up here just to say hi?”

“Sure, why not?” Her smile was easy. “I was jogging on the beach.” She motioned behind her. “Decided to take a detour.”

He noticed then that she was wearing jogging shorts, the kind that flowed with her movements and looked soft like her skin. The tank top she wore matched her eyes and hair perfectly.

“Convenient detour,” he teased, hitching Blaze’s reins over the fence rail and walking over to her. “You missed a great show. Blaze nearly bit my ear off this morning,” he said, wiping his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder.

Her eyes drifted towards the horse. “He looks like he’s still plotting.”

Abe laughed. “Oh, he is. I’m just winning for now.”

She looked back at him, her gaze softer than he expected. “You look… different out here.”

“Dirty?” he suggested.

She chuckled. “No. Relaxed. Like this is where you’re supposed to be.”

He leaned on the fence next to her. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you. You look more relaxed than before. Settling back in?”

A flicker of something crossed her face—emotion, hesitation, maybe both—but she didn’t look away. Instead, she just shrugged slightly.

Deciding not to spook her, he asked, “You want to meet them properly?” He nodded at the horses.

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Sure.”

He opened the gate and held it for her and as she stepped through.

After a quick introduction, during which Stormy instantly nuzzled Dylan’s shoulder, he led Blaze into the barn. Dylan followed behind with Stormy walking calmly beside her like they were already best friends. Abe watched them out of the corner of his eye, noting how natural Dylan looked next to the horse. Maybe not completely comfortable, but definitely not afraid.

“Just tie her there,” he said, motioning to the cross ties. “I’ll grab the brushes.”

She clipped Stormy in place while he moved through the tack room, grabbing two sets of brushes and a couple of cooling cloths. When he returned, he handed her one without a word and started working Blaze down, sweeping the brush in long, even strokes along the gelding’s sweaty coat.

They worked in quiet rhythm for a few moments, the sounds of the barn settling around them—horses shifting, birds chattering in the rafters, the distant crash of waves.

“You look like you’ve done this a time or two,” he said over his shoulder.

“My dad was the town vet, remember?”

“Right.” He smiled. “Did you have horses?”