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We run the routine into the ground. By the time I get the mounting smooth, my whole body is numb, and my brain is barely holding on. But somewhere in the repetition, something clicks. I can swing up and land steadily. I can dismount without sprawling. It doesn’t feel like faking anymore.

Silas makes a note of it. Never says much, but he marks each win with a quiet nod or the ghost of a smile, and I feel it, every time, like a slow burn I can’t turn off.

We break for water in the shade, and I gulp down two whole bottles in seconds. My shirt is pasted to my body, hair sticking to my cheeks and neck in limp, frizzy, orange ropes, and I do not care. I would roll in the nearest trough if it didn’t mean more dust stuck to my skin.

By late afternoon, the list of chores is a blur. Sweep the alley. Stack hay bales, which, for the record, are evil and heavier than they look. Refill the feed bins for the evening. I drop a scoop and spill half the ration, but I scoop it all back up again. Even the blisters on my hands are starting to numb.

I limp through the living room on legs like overcooked noodles. It’s cold and dark compared to the outside, everything still and perfect except for Hank, who is stretched across the entire sofa, king of the world. He’s on a plaid blanket I swear wasn’t there this morning, tucked so the edges are just right, the kind of OCD neatness that doesn’t happen by accident.

Hank lifts one eyebrow at me, total nonchalance, and sighs like he’s the one who worked an entire day on the ranch. Then he curls deeper, chasing comfort, and leaves me to shuffle down the hall and peel off my boots.

Guest room. I barely make it in the room before I have to sit on the floor and pry my boots off with both hands. My arms are so sore and heavy it takes three tries. My thighs scream. The ache in my lower back throbs like a bruise. I chug a bottle of water, then crawl to the bathroom for a hot shower. I stand under the steaming water and let the warmth ease the pain in my sore muscles. I don’t even bother to dress before I collapse across the bedspread. Oh man, the sheets are cool and smell faintly like vanilla and flowers.

Somewhere beyond the haze of exhaustion, I hear Silas moving in the house. Floorboards creak. There’s the sound of a fridge opening, the low hush of a man who’s built for moving quietly, even when he takes up all the space.

I lie there, not moving, and think about the way he steadied me earlier. The look in his eyes. That’s the last thing in my mind before sleep yanks me under.

The next morning, it’s more of the same, but with every single bruise and pull from the day before screaming for mercy. I dress, shuffle barefoot through the kitchen, and chug coffee in a thick silence. Every muscle in my body has staged a coup.

This time, Silas is waiting on the back porch, two mugs in hand, the second he offers with a little smile.

“Didn’t think you’d be upright after yesterday,” he says, eyes crinkling. His hair is shower-wet, curling at the ends.

I accept the coffee with both hands. My fingers shake, but not so much that I can’t take a sip. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

He looks me up and down, like he’s checking for damage. “Good to know.” But the warmth in his voice says he already knew I’d be here.

Day two. Repeat the first morning. Feed buckets still heavy, still determined to humiliate. Stall-mucking. Pitchfork is less stubborn today, or maybe my arms are getting used to the weight. Water buckets, still cold and splashy, but I get them filled without soaking myself. I want to cheer.

Horses sense me coming now. They watch, nostrils flaring, but the edge of skepticism is gone. Dolly nuzzles my palm like she’s giving me a second chance.

Mounting drills. Silas lets me go it alone, but he’s there, always, on the fence, shadow and voice and the surety that even if I fall, he’ll catch me. This time, I get up three times running without stumbling. Small win, but it feels huge.

By late afternoon, the whole barn is a haze of sunbeams and dust motes, the smell of clean hay and cold metal and my own stale sweat. My boots squelch with every step. But nothing spills, nothing shatters, and by the time we finish, I’m so proud I could burst.

Silas offers me encouragement. “Not bad, Hollywood,” he says, coming up behind me. His body heat sinks right into my skin through the thin barrier of my tee. “Sure you haven’t been doing this all your life?”

I laugh, but the sound sticks in my throat. “If you call mostly screwing up ‘doing this all my life,’ maybe.”

He leans close. I can smell him, sweat and sun and whatever dark thing lives deep under his skin. His voice is low, a little rough. “You’re learning fast. Stubborn, too. I like that.”

My knees damn near buckle. This is not fair.

I stare at the ground, then at his hands braced on the fence, knuckles dusted with hay and dirt. They look huge next to mine, veins roped under tanned skin. I swallow, awareness humming in my veins, hot and sharp and low. The urge to lean back against him is so strong I have to grip the fence to keep upright.

He doesn’t touch me, but his presence short-circuits my brain and makes everything else fade. I can feel the weight of his gaze dragging over the curve of my hips and up my back, burning invisible lines everywhere it lands. The things I want him to do to me would get us both kicked out of church forever.

I fight to focus, to keep things safe, professional, but the want between us snaps and crackles, becoming impossible to miss.

I tell myself to ignore it. I’m here to learn. But every time Silas gets close, my whole body betrays me.

Every nerve ending lights up. There’s no hiding it. My brain can shout professional, keep your distance, all it wants, but my body is an entirely different animal, and Silas Carrington is the man it wants to roll belly-up for.

He hands me the lead rope and walks me through the next drill, but I can’t focus on his words because his hand brushes against mine. It’s nothing and everything at the same time. His palm is huge, fingers rough, skin radiating heat that soaks all the way through me. He notices and grins slow, giving me that crooked smirk that does unspeakable things to my self-control.

God, his eyes. Dark, molten brown. The way he looks at me is like he’s seeing every secret my body has ever tried to hide. I want to say something funny. Instead, I just stare at his mouth and imagine what it would feel like pressed to mine.

He moves closer, closing the gap to spot me while I cinch the saddle. His voice drops. “You’re holding your breath, Hollywood.” Shit. Busted.