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She’s perched there, breathless, cheeks a hot pink, hair falling wild around her face. Her shirt rides up just a little, hips settling into the leather. She looks down at me like she’s seeing something new, something big and a little terrifying.

She’s the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

I steady Dolly’s reins, keeping a hand on the saddle just behind her calf. “How does it feel?”

She gives me a look that’s half terror, half thrill-seeker. “Really… high up.”

I snort. “Wait ‘til Dolly starts moving. Then you’ll know high.”

She laughs, catching herself on the horn. It’s a bright sound, shaky at the edges but real.

I could watch her all day. Every new second with her resets the bar for what I want, what I need.

I step back, arms folded, pretending I’m just checking her balance. In reality, I’m fighting the urge to drag her right back down and kiss her until she forgets where the hell she is.

She’s looking at me now, waiting for direction, eyes wide and trusting. It guts me.

There’s no sense to it and no logic worth a damn. But at that moment with her on the horse, sunlight striping her hair and that hopeful look on her face, I know it like I know my own name.

I’m done for.

Completely and irreversibly head over heels for this stunning woman.

CHAPTER FOUR

INEZ

I can do this. That’s the lie in my head, rattling like loose change, but it’s the only thing keeping my butt in motion.

My forearms tremble with the sloshing weight of a feed bucket that feels like it’s packed with concrete, and every step jerks the handles and threatens to send the whole thing crashing down over my shoes.

I keep my chin up and try to ignore how my arms already want to stop working. Out here, the air smells like old grass and animal funk and the inside of a sack lunch left in the sun. I’m sweating so hard I can feel it collecting in weird places, like behind my knees and between my shoulder blades.

I lumber across the barn aisle. The feed bucket is my nemesis, and I absolutely refuse to let it win. Silas tries to step in and help me, but I stop him. “I got this.”

“I know you do.” He steps back for me to pass by.

The bucket lands with a satisfying thunk against the feed bin. It tips sideways, and the pellets dump out in a gritty cascade.

I get the feed divided, more or less, and push upright. My back pinches. Both arms want to fall right off, cartoon-style. I glance over at Silas. He’s still at the rail, watching quietly, but the corner of his mouth dips up like he’s suppressing a laugh.

Next chore, stall-mucking. The holy grail of icky jobs. I grab the closest pitchfork and do my best imitation of someone who belongs, but the tines keep catching on the edge of the rubber mat, jerking the whole fork sideways. First attempt, I barely scrape up anything. My second try is even worse. One prong gets stuck, and I have to yank like I’m in a tug-of-war with the barn itself. “Do you need a little help?” Silas asks unhelpfully.

He already knows the answer, but it’s like he can’t stop himself from offering me a way out. “Nope. I can do it.” I’m determined to learn everything there is to know about horses. Even the icky parts.

“Shorter strokes, less death grip,” Silas offers from behind me. He sounds amused. “Think about guiding the pitchfork, not murdering with it.”

Well, no kidding. My arms burn, sweat sliding down the side of my face. I adjust my grip, try again, and this time get a whole forkful actually in the bucket. Progress. I want to fist pump, but I’m too freaking tired.

I slog through double stalls. The air in here is pure barn, wet hay and animal funk with something almost sweet on the back end, like old apples left to rot. Every time I lift the fork, the muscles in my shoulders howl. There are blisters starting on the inside of my thumb, but I ignore the discomfort.

I finish the second stall without collapsing. When I drag the bucket of muck to the compost heap, Silas is right there, taking it out of my hands for the last few steps like it weighs nothing. He doesn’t make a thing of it, just nods, still half-smiling, then tells me, “Enough hard work. Let’s have some fun.”

Silas brings out Dolly for me, and the mare gives me the side-eye like she’s sizing up whether I’ll wipe out again.

I’m getting better at mounting the horse. Better. Not great.

On the first try, I nearly eat dirt. Silas is in front of me before I can blink, strong hands at my waist, catching me so close I can smell his skin, clean sweat and cedar and something sharp and masculine that makes my nerves trip over themselves and my girly parts wake up and sing. He steadies me, lets me pretend I don’t need the help, and steps back with a lopsided smile that hits way too hard for how subtle it is.