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I nod, grabbing my bags. She takes a key from the counter and ducks awkwardly around me, leading the way out to a four season porch in the back. To the very far right is a barn, the light on, the shadow of someone moving around inside visible on the ground.

“My sister,” she says. “She’s putting the horses to bed.”

“How many do you have?” I ask.

“A lot. Those are the ones we ride the most.”

I nod, on her heels as she goes down into the yard. We duck beneath a thick tree, and a neat, cottage-style building comes into view. She climbs the short steps to the front porch and turns the key, pushing in the door with a heavy creak. I lean past her, looking for a light switch. We’re very close, close enough that I feel the heat from her body.

For the first time, I feel that twinge I expected coming home.

She turns to speak and then falters.

My heart accelerates, just a bit.

“Uh…it’s right there,” she says, pointing.

“Okay,” I say.

Neither of us move. In the distance, something crashes in the barn—sounds like a horse kicking at the side of its stall. She startles, snapping to attention.

“You need anything, just let me know,” she says, scrambling down the steps. Her eyes are huge in the moonlight, looking up through her wispy bangs.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say.

Sometimes, I wish I was better with words. When it’s my fingers on a keyboard or my pen in my notebook, they flow like a stream. But when there’s a person in front of me, when I’m on the spot, I’m at a loss—especially when the person is as pretty as Sabrina Maxwell. That makes it a hell of a lot worse. She gives me a thin-lipped smile and heads back to the house.

I watch her go. Then, I step into my new home.

CHAPTER THREE

SABRINA

I wake very early, my alarm beeping.

All I want is to burrow deep in the quilt, but that’s a luxury I haven’t been able to afford for a while now. Plus, I need this time before everyone else is up to get a jumpstart on my day. Peeling myself upright, I pull on my shorts and t-shirt, grab my boots, and leave my room for the kitchen. Sometimes, it’s a little nippy going outside this early, so I snatch a blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around my shoulders. Then, I make a cup of coffee in one of Dad’s favorite stoneware mugs, the bumpy kind that’s too big and heavy for me, and go outside to the front porch.

Everything is bathed in gray light. Dad or Serena must have gotten up during the night and let the dogs out, because the Maligators are on the porch, heads on their paws. Billy lifts his head, sniffing the air. The Kid stays where he is, but he’s always been the lazier of the two.

I walk out into the yard, to the edge where we have a firepit and two wooden chairs, and sink down.

I have a lot to think about.

Mainly, the very attractive man living in the guesthouse. Coen Taylor came out of left field; he’s not what I expected at all. I was kind of thinking he’d be a douche in a rhinestone jacket and never-worn cowboy boots without a speck of mud or wear and tear. Instead, I found a handsome man with soulful eyes and a thoughtful way of speaking. He’s shockingly down to Earth. Unfortunately, he is exactly my type, straight to the past as a Wyoming wrangler himself. God, I love a stressed out man who’s willing to get his hands dirty. Unfortunately, this one is off-limits for so many different reasons.

I have enough going on anyway.

I can’t let myself look at him like that. I’m sure he’s used to dating mega rich celebrities. The girl working at his personal wellness retreat is not on the docket.

Taking a slow breath, I run my eyes over the line of gray mountains. I know them so well. Around the time Mom moved away, I started getting up early and going to stare out at them. They never give me any answers, but I feel small, and in that smallness, my problems shrink too. Wyoming is a vast expanse. Sometimes, I feel like I can see where the world starts to curve.

I empty my mug and carry it back to the porch along with my blanket, setting them down before circling the house and heading to the barn. The wranglers are already awake and in the north barn, saddling up and riding out for the day.

It takes me a moment to wriggle up the heavy lock. Then, I’m in the cool barn, wishing I’d grabbed my flannel. Everything smells like sweet hay and grain and horses, the most comforting scent in the world. Arms tucked against my sides, I go down the row to the end where my filly, Rosie, is housed. She’s asleep, her chestnut coat gleaming in the faint light coming from her window.

“Hey,” I whisper.

She swings her head, blinking.