Spice slammed against the pen again, and the wood gave a low, splintering groan. My body jolted, like the sound had struck something raw inside me. "And what if it's not?" I asked, the words breaking through before I could soften them. "What if this is more than it looks like? What if she's more?"

Colt's jaw locked—tight enough to strain the muscle there—but he didn't argue right away. His eyes drifted toward Spice, still circling the pen like a storm looking for a weak spot to split open. And when he finally spoke, his voice was low, but it wasn't gentle.

"Horses ain't like people," he said, each word measured, like he was laying down fence posts. "They don't come carrying secrets. Don't bring trouble unless someone's already handed it to them."

He didn't look at me when he said it, but I felt the distance in his voice, the push behind the words. Like he needed to believe them more than I did.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to feel the sting. It kept me from saying something I couldn't take back. Something I'd regret once the silence came again.

"This isn't about secrets," I said, quieter now. "It's about timing. About things showing up when they shouldn't. About the kind of coincidences that feel like more than that."

I turned my gaze toward the brand on Spice's shoulder—White Wood's mark. It gleamed like oil in the light, a perfect circle around a letter that still made something cold press up under my ribs.

"That brand didn't walk itself here," I said. "She didn't break out of their fences, cross half the state, and land on our porch by accident."

Colt exhaled, slow through his nose. Not quite a sigh—more like restraint made audible. "You think someone's out there playin' games with a horse?" he asked, and his voice wasn't mocking, but there was an edge to it. Like he didn't want to have this conversation. Like the idea scared him more than it should've.

"No," I said, and the word felt worn down, like I'd already used it too many times today. "I think someone didn't want to deal with her. So they sent her somewhere they knew she'd disappear."

He shook his head, the brim of his hat tipping just enough to shadow his eyes. "You're givin' them too much credit. Sometimes folks don't think that hard. Sometimes they just shove the problem away and don't look back."

Spice struck again—harder this time—and the board gave beneath her. The crack split through the air like a gunshot, sharp and final. I felt it in my teeth. My fingers clenched around the lead rope on instinct, useless and late. The sound echoed in the hollow space between my ribs, that quiet place where fear and memory meet. She tossed her head, wild-eyed and panting, her whole body a live wire, frayed at both ends.

I stepped back, breath caught behind my teeth, my boots scuffing against the dirt as I tried to make sense of the thudding in my chest. Spice's sides heaved. Her breath fogged in the cold, curling like smoke from a house already half-burned.

Before I could move, Colt did. Steady, measured, calm in a way that felt ancient. The way mountains are calm. He slid in front of me with a quiet kind of purpose, not a single wasted motion in his body. His hand rose, palm open, fingers steady, and when he spoke, his voice dropped low—low enough it curled around the tension in the air and smoothed its edges.

"Easy now," he murmured, coaxing, not commanding. "Ain't nobody gonna hurt you here."

And she listened.

I watched her ears flick, her breath slow, the twitch of her muscles starting to loosen beneath her skin. That fire didn't vanish, but it didn't burn so close to the surface anymore.

And Colt—God—he didn't just calm her. He made the space quieter. Like everything inside the barn had been holding its breath, and now it could exhale again.

He always had that in him. That quiet steadiness people mistake for silence. But I knew better. I'd seen the way he handled things no one else could touch. The way he never flinched from the broken things. The way he stood between chaos and calm like he was built to keep them apart.

I didn't step in. I should've. Should've helped. But there was something in the stillness he'd carved into the storm that I didn't want to disturb. Something reverent about it. And maybe that was the truth I didn't want to name—how much I envied him for it. For that groundedness I couldn't seem to find in myself anymore.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Get the stall ready," he said—soft but certain.

No room for argument. No room for me to fall apart.

I nodded and moved before the doubt could catch up.

The barn swallowed me whole, and I let it.

The air inside was colder than I remembered, like it had drawn breath from the coming winter and held it in its ribs. The scent of old hay, weathered wood, and quiet waiting pressed in around me, heavy and close. Shadows leaned long across the floorboards, stretched thin by the failing light. I moved on instinct, numbed at the edges, guided more by the echo of Colt's voice than any decision I'd made.

Red lifted his head as I passed, ears twitching forward, that deep brown gaze following me with a calm I couldn't touch. Beside him, Honey shifted her weight, the flick of her tail catching the edge of a beam of light. Even the horses felt it—whatever storm had rolled in on four hooves and a history none of us asked for.

I opened the empty stall beside them, the metal latch cold against my palm, and spread the hay like it might soften something deeper than the floor. My hands moved with the surety of habit, but inside, everything was unwinding—each motion a thread pulled loose, a quiet unraveling I didn't know how to stop.

Behind me, I heard the steady rhythm of Colt's steps, the familiar weight of his presence as constant as the barn walls. Spice's hooves struck the ground with cautious defiance. Her breath came in bursts, curling pale in the chill, as if her body was still bracing for a fight no one had declared. She hesitated at the threshold, muscles drawn tight like a bow pulled past its hold.

But Colt didn't pull.

He didn't push, either.

He just stood beside her and spoke in that voice that seemed made for calming storms—low, even, laced with something deeper than patience. A steadiness that didn't ask for anything in return. And somehow, slowly, she gave.

One step.

Another.

The stall took her like it had been waiting.

"She'll settle," Colt said, his hand still resting on the stall door like he needed the contact. His voice came low, steady—not a prediction, not a guess, but a conviction wrapped in grit. I looked at him, drawn by that quiet finality, by the way his eyes held mine—not soft, not hard. Just there. Like stone warmed by sun.

And maybe I was searching for something in his face. Some sign that I wasn't the only one who felt the air shift. That the thing between us wasn't just in my chest, tightening.

"She just needs time," he added, and it landed in me like a truth I didn't want to believe. Because time didn't always heal things. Sometimes it just taught you how to live with the ache.

I turned back toward the feed bin, letting my hands move so my thoughts wouldn't. I reached inside and pulled out an apple, cool and heavy in my palm, and stepped closer to the slats. Spice flicked an ear, her breath still coming short and sharp, nostrils wide as she caught the scent. She didn't rush. Didn't trust. But after a beat, she stretched her neck forward and took the apple, slow and deliberate, like she was deciding to believe in the offering—just for now.

The sound of her teeth breaking through the skin echoed, and I let out a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. It slipped past my lips like steam off river water. Faint. Barely there.

"You think she's gonna be okay here?" I asked, my voice quieter than I meant, almost shy in the space we'd just calmed. It wasn't just about the horse, and he knew that. I was asking something else. Something I didn't quite have the words for.

Colt didn't answer right away. Just watched her, arms crossed over his chest, his shoulder against the stall door like he'd been standing there all his life. There was a weight in him I hadn't noticed until now. A tension wound so tightly into the way he stood that I wondered if he even knew it was there.

"She's got fight," he said, finally. "And fight keeps you alive. But it's the quiet that saves you, in the end."

Then he glanced at me, and I felt it—that shift in the air when someone sees more than you meant to show. "Horses," he said, voice softer now, almost like it was meant for me and not her, "they're built to bend. To break and still come back. It's people who don't always know how."

Something in my throat pulled tight, and I turned my gaze to the oats instead of him. I reached into the sack, the crinkle of the bag loud in the hush, and poured a handful into my palm. Spice nosed forward, her breath brushing over my skin—warm and damp and real—and for one strange second, it felt like an answer.

"It's not letting go that's the hard part," I said, the words more breath than sound. "It's the not knowing. The way everything feels like it could fall apart, even when it's quiet."

Colt didn't say anything. But I felt him there, beside me, steady as timber. And somehow, in that silence, I didn't feel so alone in the not knowing.

Ω

Colt swung the rope again—too fast, too tight, the coil jerking in a way that told me everything I needed to know before it even left his hand. His movements were stiff, driven by frustration more than rhythm, and the rope slapped the dirt with a dull thud that echoed in the hollowness between us. He muttered something under his breath, too low to catch, and reset with a sharp inhale. He muttered something under his breath, too low to catch, and reset with a sharp inhale.

I didn't move from where I was crouched, one knee braced against the cold earth. My gloves were slick with old dust and new splinters, the fence rail beneath my hands still bearing the faint memory of where Spice had kicked through it days ago. I'd sanded the break down, replaced the board, packed the gap tight with steel brackets and stubbornness—but the scar remained. A faint split in the grain, almost invisible unless you were looking for it. Unless you knew where to look.

"You're still overthinking it," I said, voice low, but not soft. The kind of voice you use when you're trying not to let tenderness slip out and ruin the edge. The sun hung low, casting that kind of slow, syrupy light that made even broken things look golden if you squinted hard enough. I didn't bother squinting. I knew better. "You're trying to muscle through it instead of letting it come to you."

His eyes flicked toward me, sharp and quick, that flint-strike of defiance always waiting just beneath the surface. "I know how to rope, Lemon." The words came quiet but hard. Not angry. Just tired. And underneath it all, I could feel the weight he was carrying—how not being able to do the thing he once did without thought had sunk claws into his pride. How it wasn't just about a rope, and we both knew it.

I held his stare for a breath before looking away, the wind cutting through the pasture, tugging loose hair into my mouth. "Do you?" I murmured, mostly to myself. "Because right now, you're not moving like someone who trusts himself."

The fence creaked beneath me as I leaned forward, bracing a hand against the post to keep it steady. "You're trying to mimic what your right used to do. But this arm—" I gestured toward his left—"it's never had to lead. It doesn't know how yet. You gotta let it find its own way."

Colt rubbed at the scruff along his jaw, his fingers slow, deliberate, like he was trying to buy himself a moment. His gaze stayed fixed on the rope in his hands like it might offer an answer if he stared long enough. But the truth clung to the corners of his mouth, the dip of his brow. I'd seen it before—in the way a horse braces before a fall, in the silence of someone realizing the ground beneath them doesn't hold like it used to.

"Feels wrong," he muttered. "Every damn time I throw it."

The honesty of it knocked the wind from me a little. Not because I hadn't known—but because I had. And hearing him say it out loud made it real in a way that left no space for pretending. No space for pride.

I rose slowly from where I'd been crouched, brushing dust from my gloves, then letting one hand rest against the fence post. The scar in the grain caught the light. Just a faint fracture, but it was still there. Even with all the sanding, bracketing, reinforcing—some breaks didn't vanish. They just changed shape.

"It's supposed to feel wrong right now," I said gently, winding my own rope through my fingers. The weight of it was familiar, grounding. "That's how learning works. You keep showing up for it even when it feels like hell. That's what makes it stick."

I let him watch the way my fingers settled around the coils, slow and easy, like I'd done it a thousand times without thinking. And I had. Not because it was easy, but because I'd learned how to listen to the things my body was trying to teach me when my mind got too loud.

Colt studied my hands, then let out a breath that was more surrender than frustration. He loosened his grip, turned his palm up, and flexed the stiffness out of his fingers. His eyes stayed on the rope as he shook out his arms, set his stance again. This time, he moved with less push and more feel.

Six feet of slack dangled between his hands as he lifted the loop, letting it spin. The air caught it just right, and it danced a little—twirling faster, then faster still. He bent his elbow slightly, shifted his weight. And when he released, the loop arced out clean and true, settling over the cow skull with a quiet kind of finality. A perfect catch. One horn caught square.

A flicker of something passed through him then—not pride exactly, but relief. Like he'd been holding his breath and hadn't realized it until the silence landed.

"There," I murmured. "That's better, isn't it?"

Colt's smile didn't bloom the way most did—it unfolded slow, like he didn't trust it yet. Like the win hadn't quite landed in his chest. But it reached his eyes, faint at first, then brighter, before he pulled me toward him in a gesture so unguarded it nearly undid me. His arm hooked around my waist—not rough, not teasing, just... sure. The way you catch something you didn't realize was slipping.

The hug came without warning, and I didn't have the sense to fight it. My body folded into his before my mind could protest. He smelled like sun and sweat and dust, and something quieter I couldn't name—something that had settled into my bones these past few days and refused to leave. His chest rose and fell against mine, steady and real, and for one suspended second, I let myself rest in the gravity of him.

"Thank you," he murmured, his breath brushing the side of my neck. The words barely registered above the din of my pulse, but I felt them. Not just the sound, but the shape of them—gritty and earnest and unsaid until now. His voice wasn't soft, not really. But there was gentleness in it all the same. That rare kind of reverence he gave to things he didn't quite know how to hold.

He let go before I could respond, stepping back like the moment hadn't just curled itself around my ribs. I swallowed, adjusted the coil of rope against my side, and turned toward the barn. "Again," I said, my tone brisk, clipped with purpose. A clean break from the moment we'd just shared.

But he heard the catch in my voice. I knew he did, because his grin tugged wider, teeth flashing beneath the shadow of his hat. That boyish glint returned to his eyes, the one that only showed up when he was feeling smug and dangerous. Colt Langmore didn't say anything—not with words. He just reset his rope, slow and deliberate. Which should've been the warning.

I turned toward the barn, boots crunching over gravel, mind already cataloguing what still needed doing—hay bales to move, tack to clean, the stall door that still stuck when it swelled in the heat. I was halfway to the gate when the rope snapped tight around my shoulders.

The lasso caught just below my collarbones, and before I could curse or brace or do a damn thing about it, he pulled. Hard.

The world tilted. My balance disappeared out from under me, and the ground came rushing up, all dust and embarrassment. I hit the dirt with a grunt, palms scraping into the gravel, breath knocked from my lungs in one sharp burst.

For a moment, I just laid there, staring at the sky like it owed me an explanation.

When I rolled over, Colt was already doubled at the waist, laughter shaking his frame. Real, belly-deep laughter—the kind you didn't hear often from him. The kind that cracked something open in the air.

I should've been mad. Hell, I should've gotten up and flung the rope right back at him. But instead, a slow smile pushed its way to the surface, curling at the edges of my mouth before I could stop it. I untangled the rope from my arms, tossed it aside, and sat back on my heels with a dramatic sigh.

"Not bad, Langmore," I said, brushing grit from my jeans, though it clung stubbornly to the knees. "But next time you wanna flirt, maybe skip the part where you try to kill me."

"Didn't hear you complain," he said through another breath of laughter, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Pretty sure you needed that."

I ignored the warmth uncoiling through my chest, the way his words settled somewhere deeper than they should've. I got to my feet, dusted off the last of the dirt, and tossed a glance over my shoulder as I walked toward the barn. "Put your toys away. Hay's not gonna move itself, and you still look like a drunk newborn when you pitch with your left."

He let out a low whistle, but I didn't turn back. I didn't need to. I could feel his grin behind me. Could hear the slow crunch of his boots as he followed.

Inside the barn, the air had cooled, shadows stretching along the floor like they were settling in for the night. I handed him the pitchfork without ceremony. He took it in his left, didn't say a word—just set his shoulders and started moving hay.

Slower than before. A little off. But he didn't quit.

Not even when the muscles in his back tightened or when the fork caught on the edge of the stall and nearly wrenched from his grip. I watched the way he adjusted, how he kept going without asking for help, jaw tight, breath steady. Colt wasn't the kind of man who complained. He just carried what he had to and kept walking.

By the time we finished, the barn was quiet again, the work done. He rolled his shoulder with a low grunt, rubbed the base of his spine with one hand, then looked at me like he knew I'd been watching.

"You want a beer?" I asked, the question leaving my mouth before I could stop it. It sounded too casual, too light for the way my heart was beating.

Colt's gaze didn't leave mine. His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "Yeah," he said. "I could use one."