CHAPTER 1 #2
A chestnut horse bursts into the clearing, reins flailing, its sides slick with sweat and its eyes wide with panic.
There’s no rider, just an empty saddle and a storm of motion.
It charges across the lawn like it’s being chased by ghosts, hooves digging into the grass, sending clumps of earth flying behind it.
My heart jumps straight into my throat.
It’s headed right for the cabins, and straight for me.
For a second, I freeze.
Then something deeper kicks in. Maybe it’s memory. Or instinct. Or the kind of dumb bravery that only shows up when you’re too shocked to be scared.
“Whoa,” I call, lifting both hands slowly, palms out like I’m trying to calm a friend down from a ledge. “Easy, buddy… easy. You’re okay.”
My voice comes out steadier than I feel. I take a few careful steps toward its path, not directly in front of it, but close enough to be noticed. I keep my movements slow, controlled. Low center of gravity, soft voice, eyes on the horse but not staring it down.
My old riding instructor, Mrs. Rainey, who always wore a visor and had a voice like honey over gravel, used to say that a calm tone could do more than a rope ever could.
The horse sees me. Its ears flick. It veers slightly, muscles bunching like it’s deciding whether to dodge or plow through.
I ease closer.
Almost there.
It snorts and stomps once, eyes rolling.
Then it jerks left.
I reach out, and grab the reins just as it starts to turn.
My sneakers skid in the grass.
I go down hard, one knee slamming into the dirt. Pain blooms up my thigh, but I don’t let go. The leather cuts into my palm as I hold tight, the smell of sweat and earth hitting me full force. For a second, I think it’s going to drag me, then the tension shifts.
The horse exhales.
Long and loud.
A sigh.
And then… stillness.
I kneel there, mud streaked down my leg, hand clenched around the reins, chest heaving. The horse towers over me, still as a statue except for the tremble in its flanks.
I blink up at it, dazed. “Yeah,” I mutter. “That went great.”
A voice slices through the air behind me. Sharp. Female. Very pissed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”
I twist around on one knee.
And there she is.
Tall. Sun-kissed. Furious.
Platinum blonde hair pulled tight into a no-nonsense ponytail, dust clinging to the knees of her riding jeans.
Her boots thud against the ground as she stalks forward like the earth is lucky to hold her weight.
Her grey eyes are locked on me, narrowed, intense.
The kind of eyes that see everything and miss nothing.
She stops a few feet away, her gaze flicking from me to the horse and back again. “Are you a guest? Staff? Some kind of horse whisperer with a death wish?”
For a beat, all I can do is stare. She’s… stunning. But not in the polished, makeup-ad kind of way. She looks real. Raw. Dust and muscle and heat. Like the storm that brought the horse was actually her.
I blink.
“Uh…” I wipe a smear of dirt off my cheek with the back of my hand. “None of the above. I’m Nathan Jones. I’m here for the interview.”
Her expression shifts, just slightly. The anger recedes enough to make space for something else, surprise, maybe. Curiosity. A faint spark of amusement.
She pats the horse’s neck with a confident, affectionate touch, her eyes softening. “Well, that’s a hell of a first impression,” she says. “You tackle a runaway and apply for maintenance in the same breath? What is this, your audition for a Western?”
I laugh, awkward, sheepish. “I took riding lessons when I was a kid. Guess a few things stuck.”
She studies me again. Her gaze sharpens, narrowing slightly. Not hostile. Just assessing. Like she’s checking for cracks.
“You’ve got good instincts,” she says. “And apparently no sense of self-preservation.”
Beside us, the horse lets out a long breath, as if in agreement.
She jerks her head toward a path that leads behind one of the cabins. “There’s a staff shower out back behind the storage shed. You’re not stepping into my office smelling like you lost a bar fight with a saddle.”
“Your office?” I ask before I can stop myself. My throat goes a little dry. “Are you… Mrs. Sage?”
“Miss,” she corrects crisply. “I’m Marilyn Sage.”
Shit.
She’s younger than I expected. I’d figured the Sage sisters would be middle-aged women in sunhats and matching polos. Not this.
Not her.
And here I am, standing in front of her with grass-stained jeans and dirt in my teeth.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wincing. “I didn’t mean to, ”
She waves a hand, cutting me off. “Don’t apologize. And thank you, for keeping him from running straight into the lodge.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t call me that. Makes me feel ancient. It’s Marilyn.”
“Yes, ma, ” I catch myself. “Marilyn.”
“Better,” she says, taking the reins and leading the horse past me. “Come on. You look like you rolled out of a rodeo. We’ll talk once you don’t smell like one.”
I follow her, trying not to limp, trying not to stare too obviously at the confident sway of her stride.
And trying, most of all, not to think about how this woman, this gorgeous, commanding, terrifying woman, has known me for less than three minutes…
…and already knocked the breath clean out of my lungs.
We stop in front of a squat wooden structure beside the storage shed. It’s half-hidden by trees, with a path leading up and a simple sign that just says Shower.
Marilyn nods toward the back. “It’s in there. Staff shower, nothing fancy, but it does the job when you’re covered in horsehair and dust.”
Her eyes flick to my jeans, still streaked with dirt and grass stains.
“There’s a hair dryer, towels, soap. You can spot-clean your clothes and dry them while you’re at it.”
“Thanks,” I manage, still catching my breath from the horse, and from her.