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Sienna peeks at me.

“And I believe this is the only horse you ever wanted to ride.”

She slows her nose scratches. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yeah, baby. Let’s take Juniper for a ride.” I wink, moving to get my horse Porter as well.

I get my horse tacked up while Sienna talks to Juniper. I work fast. Porter has opinions about his bit and I have opinions about his opinions and we reach our usual compromise in under four minutes. When I lead Porter out of his stall and come around the corner, she is still at Juniper’s door, braids over one shoulder, palm flat against the mare’s nose. By the time I have Juniper’s saddle on and checked the girth, Sienna is telling her about the tabloid photos, which Juniper appears to find unremarkable.

“She’s perfect, Gray,” Sienna says, watching me adjust the stirrups. “Such a sweet girl.”

“She put two riders out of commission for a year when we were trying to break her in,” I point out, giving Juniper a side eye. Because if it wasn’t for how much Sienna loved her, I swear Iris would have sold Juniper twice over by now.

“Those riders weren’t worthy. Were they, Juni?” Sienna says in a pouty baby voice.

We don our helmets, and I try not to stare at Sienna’s mouth or focus on my knuckles grazing her jawline as I fasten the strap under her chin.

“Ready?” I say, holding onto Juniper’s reins as we make our way outside.

“Yup.”

I put my hands on her waist before she can object. My palms settle over the burgundy sweatshirt, and she gets her left foot in the stirrup and reaches for the pommel. I lift on three, and Sienna swings her right leg over and lands in the saddle clean. Sits up straight. Heels already dropping without being told.

“Good girl,” I say, straightening up and going to Porter.

I swing up and into the saddle and turn him toward the trail, and when I look back to tell Sienna we’re heading south she is already moving.

Juniper is at a trot before I’ve finished the thought.

“Sienna,” I call after her.

She laughs, the sound floating back over her shoulder, and pushes Juniper into a canter. “Come on, slow poke!”

I kick Porter into gear and go after her.

She has a head start, and Juniper is lighter than Porter. Sienna is riding like she has done this more than twice in her life, sitting into it, her braids flying behind her, and her laughter carrying back on the wind every time she glances over her shoulder and sees me gaining.

“How long has it been since you last rode?” I shout.

“Eight years,” she shouts back, and Juniper lengthens her stride. “It’s like riding a bike!”

I push Porter harder. He complains about it the way he complains about everything, with a heavy opinion communicated through his back that lifts me from the saddle and makes my thigh muscles scream to hold on tight, but this is the freest I’ve felt since I went away to college. My cheeks ache from smiling so much.

We ride south along the tree line, the trail opening into a flat stretch of field grass with the sun sitting low and orange over the water to our left. Sienna stays ahead of me for most of it, pushing Juniper when she hears me closing in and letting her coast when she thinks she has enough distance. Every time I get close enough to see her face, she is grinning. Not the Echo grin. Not the press smile or the stage smile or the careful public version of it. The real one, the one that lights up her whole face and reaches her eyes and makes her look exactly like the girl she was before any of this happened to her.

I let her have the lead for the last half mile.

I slow Porter to a walk two miles in and whistle. Sienna brings Juniper around in a wide arc, the mare blowing hard, both flushed from the run. Sienna’s braids are half undone, blue-black curls loose around her face, and she is breathing like she just finished a show.

“That,” she says, pointing at me with one finger, “was the best thing I’ve done in years.”

“Better than Madison Square Garden?” I say.

She thinks about it for half a second.

“The Garden comes close because the rush is crazy,” she says. “A bit like riding a horse, freeing and alive, but I also feel grounded in my body on stage. Like I can feel every atom and spark. It’s similar, but different.”

“Being a superstar must be such a rush, huh?”