Chapter 27
Fable
“When I said I wanted to get out of The Dive, I didn’t mean shoveling shit in a barn,” I muttered, hands on my hips as I watched Beau haul a barrel of hay toward the stalls.
“Be honest, Cowgirl. You’re not doing a damn thing.”
I laughed as he set the barrel down and swung open one of the stall doors.
“This is Ginger.”
I hesitated at the entrance, eyeing the horse as she shifted in place. I’d been around horses when I was younger, but my head was still spinning from earlier at the bar.
My panic attack wasn’t about Beau, it was everything else. I loved my life here. I loved the work with Kline, the rhythm of the ranch, the way the days asked something real from me and actually gave something back. Leaving Chicago didn’t scare me the way I’d always assumed it would.
But some days, like tonight, it felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s story and dared it not to notice.
Like I was an impostor in borrowed boots and one wrong move would expose that I was still learning how to live inside this version of myself, still catching up to the choices I’d already made.
And seeing Beau again, seeing the way he looked at me like he could read the mess under my skin, had left a hot, humiliating edge of shame I couldn’t shake.
Shame that made me want to scrub myself raw.
I took a slow step inside. “Hi, Ginger,” I murmured.
Beau smiled as he moved to the side of the stall and set down her food. I leaned against the stall, watching him move.
His black shirt clung to him in places I shouldn’t be noticing. His jeans hung low on his hips. And there was the damn belt buckle—gold, with a bull carved into it. He was a living advertisement for temptation.
I didn’t know what it was, but when he looked at me, I felt like he saw more than I was willing to give. Like he could feel the hesitancy in me, the push and pull of wanting to be here, but also wanting to run before I let myself get comfortable.
His gaze flickered to mine. “You’re staring, Cowgirl.”
I snapped out of it, clearing my throat. “You got a lot of nerve accusing me of that.”
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished spreading the hay, then turned his full attention to Ginger, running a hand down her side with effortless ease.
I wished I could live like that.
Harleigh had said I’d been doing better lately. And she wasn’t wrong. Most days, I was better. I could get through a full shift without spiraling. I could eat without counting every possible consequence. I could breathe and not feel like my own body was a trap.
But “better” didn’t mean gone.
It just meant the anxiety lived a little farther back in my head. Still there, though. Still waiting for the right moment to reach forward and wrap its fingers around my throat.
I watched Beau brush over Ginger’s coat and tried not to flinch at the intrusive thoughts that always came with it: the dirt, the germs, the unknown.
Tried not to let the shame creep in, the memory of the bar, the heat of wanting and the ugly part afterward where I wanted to scrub myself raw.
Tried not to let it swallow me before I even stepped closer.
There were moments where I got close. Moments where the fear didn’t suffocate me, where I could exist without thinking. Moments where I lived.
But most of the time, the fear still won. Most of the time, I stayed on the sidelines, too afraid to step in.
I watched the way his hands worked, steady and sure. Being around him made it easier to breathe. Maybe it was the calm in the way he moved, or the way he didn’t push too hard, didn’t demand anything from me. Or maybe it was because, despite the teasing and cocky grins, he felt safe.
When he glanced back up, his dark eyes caught mine. I wanted to tell him the truth. That I was tired of fighting a war against myself every day. That I was scared he saw through me, but even more scared that he might not.
I swallowed hard, willing my voice to work.
“I, uh, I have this thing about germs.” I started hesitantly, taking a small step deeper into the stall. “I get a lot of . . . anxiety when things feel dirty.”
Beau dropped his hand from Ginger, snapping his attention to me. He didn’t say anything. He took a step closer and met me halfway.
“It’s why you’ve caught me in the bathroom so much,” I admitted, holding up my hands as proof. “That’s why they look like this.” I dropped my gaze, staring at the irritated skin, the raw, red patches that still ached from scrubbing too hard, too often. “I know it’s weird bu—”
“It’s not weird.”
His answer was immediate.
I looked up in time to see him pull off his hat, running a hand through his messy hair. He wasn’t looking at my hands anymore—he was looking at me, really looking, with an expression I couldn’t quite place.
I opened my mouth, unsure of what I was even going to say, but he beat me to it.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Fable.”
Something in my chest tightened, curled up in a way that was almost painful.
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to.
I’d told him about Mike, but the accident? The only person who knew was Harleigh. Even then, I barely talked about it. Saying it out loud made it too real, made it something I had to face instead of something I could keep buried.
Beau held my gaze. “What can I do? I’ll stop the jokes. I don’t wanna be the reason you’re more anxious.”
A single tear slipped down my cheek before I even realized it, and I wiped it away quickly.
That was . . . kind. Thoughtful. More than I deserved. Yet, it didn’t surprise me—not coming from him.
“The bathroom’s right in the house,” he said gently. “When you want to go, we can walk up together. If this is too—”
I shook my head. “It’s not too anything.”
I didn’t know why I told him. Maybe it was the way he listened, the way he didn’t look at me like I was fragile. I didn’t want to be fragile to him. I wanted him to see me fearlessly, like he was.
“I just . . . I didn’t want you to think I was weird.”
“Already told you—you’re not weird.”
I sniffed, trying to pull myself together. “Well, you are. Riding bulls for a living and all. That’s a weird job choice.”
He chuckled, and the sound curled around me like a warm blanket. “Alright. I guess we’re all a little . . . unique, then.”
“Sometimes it takes me a little time to work it out in my head,” I admitted, my fingers curling into the hem of my sleeve.
“Alright, so let’s work it out together.”
I nodded, hesitating before stepping forward again.
“One of the girls who helps out around here washed her a few days ago.”
Another step.
“She’s got a clean bill of health from the vet and has no ticks or the sort.”
Beau moved beside Ginger, running his hand along her nose.
I exhaled, taking one more step until I was right beside them. Close enough to feel the warmth of Ginger’s body, close enough to smell the scent of fresh hay in her mane.
Close enough to feel Beau’s eyes on me, patient, waiting.
“You’re doing good, Cowgirl,” he murmured.
It wasn’t about Ginger being dirty, but I appreciated what he was doing, the way he was easing me into it, making sure I didn’t have to do it alone.
“I’ve got you, baby. Want help?”
I nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.
Beau moved behind me, his body a solid wall of warmth at my back. Just like in the bar bathroom, he didn’t push, didn’t rush me—just laced his fingers with mine.
His hands guided mine forward, our fingers intertwined as we reached out together, brushing against Ginger’s soft muzzle.
“That’s it.” He hummed. “Nice and slow.”
I exhaled shakily, moving my hand over her nose. The bristles of her coat felt warm beneath my fingers. She neighed softly and pressed her nose into me.
A surprised giggle bubbled out of me.
“She likes me,” I whispered, almost in disbelief. “You want to be my friend, don’t you, Ginger?”
“We all do,” Beau mused.
I glanced over my shoulder at him, catching the way the corner of his lip curled into the softest smile.
“We’re lucky to be your . . . friend,” he added, and there was something in the way he said it that made my stomach flip.
I turned back to Ginger, running my palm down her nose, feeling more at ease than I had in days.
“Good girl,” Beau murmured.
I wasn’t sure if he was talking to the horse.
Or to me.