Her voice—warm, worn in, like flannel after a long winter. And for a moment, I wanted to cry just hearing it. I didn't.

"Yeah. Hey," I managed, though it didn't sound right coming out of my mouth. My eyes found Colt across the pen—his broad frame moving slow, sure, no wasted energy as he guided the mare with that unshakable calm he wore like a second skin. She jerked and resisted, every muscle coiled like a drawn bow, and he didn't flinch. Didn't fight her. Just gave her enough space to burn through her fear without losing his grip.

"I got a delivery from White Wood," I said, the words landing harder than I meant, too sharp around the edges. "A horse. They said it's been arranged for weeks?"

The line went quiet for a second, just the soft rustle of wind on her end. Then a sigh came through—gentle, steady, the way only Laney could be when she knew I was already unraveling myself before she had the chance to do it for me.

"Yeah, Lem. I mentioned it. Last month. You were knee-deep in bills and exhaustion, remember?" Her voice stayed calm, unblaming, but firm. "I lined up a few sales before Christmas. That mare—Spice—was part of the deal. They paid well. And you said you'd take her."

I pressed my fingers against the side of my temple, tried to conjure the memory she spoke of. I could see it, almost—me at the kitchen table, phone pressed between my shoulder and ear, a cup of coffee gone cold beside a stack of unopened envelopes. Her voice had drifted through the line like background noise, and I'd nodded and agreed and said I'd handle it, because what else was I going to say?

"I remember now," I murmured, shame burning in the hollow beneath my ribs. "You told me."

Across the yard, Colt moved with that quiet authority that never needed announcing. He had the mare circling now—close enough to trust, far enough to breathe. His shoulders moved with the rhythm of her steps, patient as sunrise. He didn't look at me, but I felt him just the same. Like gravity. Like a truth I hadn't earned.

"I just forgot," I said, the words tasting like metal.

"Things have been hectic," Laney said gently, the way she always did when she sensed I'd already flayed myself open. Her voice held that soft edge I remembered from childhood—when a scraped knee was still the worst thing that could happen. "It's fine, Lem. But listen... if this is too much right now, we don't have to come for Christmas. I know things have been... complicated."

Complicated.

God, if she only knew the half of it.

But the second she said it—that maybe they wouldn't come—it landed like a stone at the base of my ribs, heavy and immediate. The idea of this place without their voices, without Piper's bare feet skimming the porch or Ty's laugh echoing off the barn walls, felt like someone was slowly wringing the life out of me.

"No," I said too quickly, the word tumbling out sharp, defensive. I reeled it in, tried again, softer this time, like smoothing a frayed edge. "I want you to come."

There was truth in it. Even if everything else felt like it was shifting beneath my feet, that much was solid.

"I haven't seen Piper or Ty in a while," I added, picturing the way Piper always tilted her head when she asked questions too big for her age, or the way Ty's face lit up at the sight of a horse, like the whole world made sense for a second. "It'll be good to have you here."

Laney exhaled, the sound soft but sure, like the sigh of a screen door swinging closed behind her. "Alright," she said, her voice a thread pulling me back from the edge. "But promise me you'll take it easy. Don't overdo it, okay? You've got enough on your plate."

I tried to laugh, but the sound didn't quite make it. It cracked somewhere in my throat, thin and brittle. "You know me, Lane," I said, too quickly. It was the kind of answer you gave when you didn't have a real one. When the truth sat too jagged in your chest to say out loud. "I'll manage."

Her chuckle on the other end was quiet, uneven, like she heard the lie but didn't want to make me name it. "Just make sure you do. Call me if you need anything, alright?"

"I will," I murmured, though we both knew I wouldn't—not unless it was already burning down around me.

When I ended the call, the air around me felt colder. Not weather-cold, but soul-cold—the kind that sinks into the seams of your bones and lingers. I tucked the phone into my pocket and let my gaze drift back toward the round pen. Spice was still circling, nostrils flaring, muscles tight under that rust-dark coat. She moved like a storm just shy of breaking—unwilling to settle, unwilling to yield. ''

She was all raw edge and defiance, and somehow, I admired her for it. Because I used to be that way once. Before I learned what happened to things that didn't bend.

Colt stood at the far rail, his hands resting easy, but his shoulders were tense, coiled in that way he had when he was bracing for a hit he'd already decided to take. I could see it in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers curled against the wood like he was trying to hold something still—maybe himself. Maybe me.

I stepped closer, letting my palm fall against the fence, rough and splintered beneath my skin.

"She's got spirit," I said, the words flat and useless even to my own ears. I wasn't sure why I said them, maybe just to fill the space between us.

He didn't smile, not really. Just that faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, more muscle memory than mirth. "Yeah," he said, eyes on the mare. "Spirited's one word for it."

A beat passed, slow and weighted. Then he added, "You don't look too surprised she came from White Wood."

The shift in his voice wasn't sharp. Colt didn't do sharp unless he meant it. But it carried something else—something quieter. A knowing. A wound he hadn't pointed to, but couldn't ignore either.

I folded my arms, trying to keep the shiver out of my bones. "I just made a call," I admitted, softer than I meant. "Turns out Laney set it up weeks ago. I just... forgot."

He studied me in that quiet way of his, the way that made it feel like he wasn't just looking at me but through me—past the words I offered, down into whatever truth I hadn't said yet. That look used to make me feel seen. Now, it made me feel exposed.

"A lot goin' on, I guess," he murmurs finally, but the words don't come easy. There's something quiet lodged in the pause between each syllable, like he's still turning it over in his mind, still wondering what I'm not saying.

I nod once, slow. My eyes drift back to Spice, circling the pen like a thought I can't quite pin down. "Laney thought it'd help the ranch," I offer, my voice low. "Something extra. For Christmas." I say it like it matters, like practicality could cover over how much I've let slip. The truth is, I hadn't thought about Christmas—not really. Not with the house feeling the way it does lately.

The confession leaves my lips softer than I expect, but I feel its weight as soon as it's gone, like I've just admitted to the ache without meaning to. How long have I been trying to patch holes with silence, thinking if I didn't name the things unraveling, they'd stop coming undone?

Colt's shoulders ease just a breath. His voice dips, gentle but certain. "If you didn't want this—if it's too much..." He trails off, but I see it in the way his hand shifts ever so slightly toward me, like he might reach for my elbow, like he's ready to catch me again. That's the kind of man he is. Doesn't push. Just makes sure he's close enough when the fall comes.

"No." The word is out before I can think. I shake my head, sharper than I mean to. "It's fine." But the lie lands between us like a stone, too heavy to pretend it didn't fall. I force a smile, brittle and tired. "Besides, it's not like I can send her back now."

From the corner of my eye, I see the woman still lingering near the trailer, one hand propped on her hip, the other tapping a beat against the metal like she's waiting for us to prove we know what we're doing. Her eyes flick from me to Colt and back again, narrowing slightly. Not judging, exactly—just watching with the kind of look that says she's seen people pretend before.

"Well," she says finally, dragging the word out like a cigarette pull. "I'd stick around to watch you try and gentle that thing, but I've got roads to run." There's something clipped in her tone, something that dares me to prove her wrong even as she turns her back.

Spice snorts behind us, kicking up a plume of dust like punctuation. The woman's gaze cuts to me one last time, sharp and assessing. "Hope she doesn't tear your place apart," she says. "Looks like she's got it in her."

The words landed like a splinter—small, but deep enough to ache.

"We've handled worse," I replied.

I didn't flinch or blink or let the barb find blood. Just kept my mouth shut and my spine straight as she climbed into her truck, as the door slammed shut behind her like the closing of something older than the morning. She didn't wait for thanks. Didn't glance back. Just turned the key and rolled off slow, tires grinding against gravel like a slow burn, leaving only a trail of dust and that stinging, electric hush.

The kind of silence that feels like it's waiting to be filled.

Colt's eyes followed her until there was nothing left to see, then dropped back to the round pen. His hands stayed in his pockets, shoulders squared beneath the weight of whatever he wasn't saying. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. I could feel the pull of his thoughts the same way you feel a storm in your teeth—quiet, tight, pressure building in the hollows.

Spice snorted and spun, her hooves biting into dirt with the reckless force of something that still didn't believe in fences. Her chestnut coat flared under the last gasp of sunlight, and for a second, it looked like fire—like she might burn her way out if the pen didn't give soon.

"She didn't waste time washing her hands of it," I muttered, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. It scraped out brittle, half-scorn, half-something closer to hurt.

Colt didn't look at me. "Can you blame her?" he said, slow and low, like gravel under boot. "She wasn't paid to care."

There was no judgment in it. Just the plain fact of the world as he saw it.

And maybe that was worse.

Because I didn't want facts. I wanted someone to look at this place, Whitewalker Ranch, and see past what it owed them. To stay anyway.

Spice moved like a live wire, all trembling fury and muscle, her hooves cutting angry grooves into the dirt, flinging dust like a dare. The sun had dipped low enough to cast her in gold—burnished, fire-lit, uncatchable. I watched her circle the pen, watched her test every inch of the fence like she could sense its weaknesses better than I ever could. And maybe she could. Animals had a way of knowing. Of sensing where the break would come first.

I stood with my arms crossed, more for protection than comfort, the wind knifing through the fabric of my jacket. "Guess we're the lucky ones who get to figure out what to do with her," I muttered, and the words felt like a thread unraveling in my chest. Weariness clung to me, bone-deep, not from lack of sleep but from too many days spent holding up things that wanted to fall.

Spice lunged again, hard into the curve of the pen, and the boards shuddered beneath her weight. I flinched, barely. But the sound—it echoed in my ribs like a warning. She moved like something used to running and hellbent on never being caught again.

Colt didn't answer right away. His eyes tracked her like a man measuring distance before a jump—careful, quiet, sure. Then his voice, rough and edged in grit: "You think it's that simple?"

He didn't look at me. He was still watching her, the same way he used to watch a bull in the chute, jaw tight, shoulders drawn like a bowstring. "This horse," he said, almost to himself, "she wasn't trained right. If she was trained at all."

His tone shifted—just enough to catch the edges of something darker. "Not what I'd expect from WhiteWood." The name came out like ash on his tongue, spat more than spoken.

I let out a dry breath that didn't quite make it to a laugh. "If they ever wanted her at all," I said. The words fell sharper than I meant, but I didn't pull them back. "Maybe she was always meant to be someone else's problem."

The thought sat heavy between us. Truth had a way of doing that—uninvited, unwanted, but too familiar to ignore.

Colt's head turned, not sharply, but with that slow, deliberate weight he carried when he was trying not to flinch. Not from me. Not from the words. From whatever thought had just rooted itself too deep to ignore.

"You're saying they sent her here on purpose?" His voice was low, but it didn't come clean. It was muddied with something—caution maybe, or disbelief—but it trembled just enough to betray him. Like a wire pulled too tight, humming with the weight it wasn't built to hold.

I didn't nod. Didn't move. My arms stayed folded tight across my chest, not for comfort, but to keep myself from unraveling at the edges. "I don't know," I said, though the words didn't feel honest even as they left my mouth. "But she didn't just show up."

Spice lunged again, her hooves splitting the silence wide open. Dust kicked up and caught the fading light, scattering gold like something holy and angry. She wasn't just pacing anymore—she was testing the edges, pressing against the limits like they'd wronged her personally. Like they owed her blood for the bruises she carried.

I glanced back at the brand—White Wood's mark carved into her flesh like a memory someone wanted her to keep. Permanent. Unforgiving. "You can call it a coincidence," I said, my voice quieter now, but sharper at the edges. "Doesn't it feel a little too convenient? How she's on our doorstep this morning. Wild. Half-starved. Branded."

Colt didn't answer right away. His eyes tracked her movement like she was a fuse burning toward something explosive. "You're reading too much into it," he said finally, and the way he said it made me wonder if he was trying to convince me or himself. "It's just a damn horse, Lemon. That's all it is."

But it wasn't.