Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Abigail
two weeks later
Sunlight leaks through the windows of the barn, dust drifting through the air as I fork fresh shavings into Griffin’s stall. It’s the same thing I’ve done every day since Lawson offered me a job at the ranch, and it’s become comforting in ways I didn’t expect.
My gloves are already damp from hauling buckets of water, and I’ve got straw in my hair and sweat rolling down my spine despite the freezing November air outside, but god…
I genuinely like this. Love it, even. There’s something steadying about the rhythm of barn chores, between brushing coats, scraping mud from hooves, hauling hay, checking blankets, sweeping aisles in wide, satisfying strokes.
It’s the first time in years I feel useful rather than trapped.
Griffin nudges my arm as I move to pass him, his velvety nose bumping insistently at my sleeve until I scratch the spot between his eyes. “Needy today, huh?” I murmur.
He flicks an ear, then leans his whole head into my chest like I’m the only person in the world worth trusting.
Two weeks ago, he reluctantly let me approach him.
Now, he stands quietly when I tighten his cinch.
He whinnies when I walk into the barn. He rests that big paint-colored head on my shoulder like we’ve known one another for our entire lives.
Lawson even said he felt good about me doing my riding lessons on Griffin from now on.
The big grumpy bastard, as everyone likes to call him, isn’t really so grumpy after all. Just… selective.
“Horses choose their people,” Lawson told me. “And, Darlin’… he chose you.”
Maybe that’s why being out here feels kind of like healing. Griffin doesn’t question me. Doesn’t know my past. He doesn’t judge me or ask what happened in my life. In New York.
He just lets me exist as I am now.
Speaking of New York…
It already feels like a lifetime ago.
It’s only been a few weeks, but the distance between who I was there and who I’m becoming here feels enormous.
Joe checks in sometimes, mostly to make sure the boys aren’t scaring me off and are “behaving”—but she never asks about the past. She doesn’t push.
She just stands there with the door open for whenever I’m ready.
I love that about her.
Some nights, though, I wake up breathless. Heart racing. That familiar dread crawling all over my skin as their faces flood my nightmares. I shove those memories back into the dark as best I can, but they still manage to find the cracks. I’m not healed. But I’m better.
I know I’ll eventually have to tell the guys everything. I owe them that much. And I’m almost there, just… not yet. Not when the words still feel sharp in my throat.
Stepping outside to dump a wheelbarrow of manure, I pause at the barn threshold.
Snow covers everything, thin but perfect.
Only a couple of inches, but it transforms the whole ranch into something I’ve only ever seen on postcards and in my most beautiful daydreams. The pasture fencing is dusted white, the roofs frosted like a sugared gingerbread house.
The mountains are beyond breathtaking, sharp peaks softened by early snow, sunlight catching on the drifts and making everything glitter like the most expensive diamonds.
I’ve lived through plenty of New York winters, but I’ve never seen snow like this.
Untouched.
Endless.
Quiet.
Like the whole world has exhaled.
I’m still staring at the mountains when footsteps sound behind me. I turn and nearly forget how to breathe.
Lincoln stands in the barn doorway, having just come down from upstairs where he spends all his time, coat unzipped, breath misting in the cold air.
His sherpa-lined canvas jacket hangs open over a flannel that hugs his chest far too well.
His jean-clad legs are covered with a pair of chaps strapped snuggly around them.
He’s wearing a damn cowboy hat too. Buckskin in color, sitting low on his brow, shadowing those unreadable mossy-green eyes.
He looks… Jesus. He looks like the kind of man women write country songs about.
He gives me a small nod. “Afternoon.”
“Hi.” My voice sounds embarrassingly soft, like just looking at him knocked the wind out of me.
He picks up his hat and quickly runs a hand through his hair before placing it back on his head, and the barn suddenly feels a little smaller. He doesn’t come down here often. At least not when I’m around. And he definitely doesn’t come dressed like this.
“I-I didn’t even know you owned chaps,” I tease, trying to will my heartbeat into something less deafening.
His mouth twitches. “Sweetheart, I was wearing chaps before I ever owned a suit.”
Oh.
Oh, that sends something dangerous down my spine.
I clear my throat and walk back into the barn, completely forgetting the reason I was about to walk out of it. Grabbing the pitchfork back up, needing something to do with my hands, I ask, “What brings you down here? I was starting to think you were permanently chained to your desk.”
“I am. But today I escaped.” He leans a shoulder against a stall door, crossing his arms. “Too much paperwork. My brain started leaking out my ears.”
A snort slips free before I can help it. “Was—was that a joke?”
He shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.” He jerks his chin toward Griffin’s stall. “Saw you working him earlier. He’s looking good. He deserves a little more attention than he’s gotten.”
“He’s perfect,” I reply. “I think he’s really starting to like me.
Lincoln huffs a quiet laugh. “Sweetheart, that horse likes almost no one. But he follows you around like a damn puppy.”
Sweetheart. That’s twice now.
My cheeks warm. “We understand each other, I think.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think you do.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, just thick with something I don’t think either of us want to name. “So…” I finally ask, brushing the hay off my jeans. “What are you doing down here? Besides protecting your leaky brain?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Wanted to go for a ride. Clear my head a bit.”
“Oh.” My brows lift. “Which horse is yours?” For some reason, it didn’t even cross my mind that he had one. In the two weeks I’ve been here, I haven’t seen him on the back of a horse once.
A faint smirk appears, like he’s amused I didn’t already know. “Chesnut gelding out in the paddock. Blaze on his nose.”
“Ranger?” I ask, already having each of the horses memorized.
“Yeah.”
“I see it. He fits you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was.”
Another pause. Then—
“Want to come?” he asks as casually as possible. But it’s not really. His eyes are too focused for casual. “Ride with me, I mean? I’ll go slow.”
I freeze.
I think I may be in shock.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I may want to entirely too much.
Going for a ride with Lincoln Taylor means being alone with him. Close. Close enough to feel the way the air around him hums, like he’s always holding something tight inside, ready to unravel at any moment.
“I shouldn’t…” I start.
His voice dips lower. Softer. “It’s just a ride, Abigail.” My pulse jumps. “But only if you want to.”
I do.
I really do.
Swallowing, I nod my head. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”
His smile is small but real. Something I don’t see often. “Good. I’ll go saddle Ranger.” As he turns, his voice drifts back over his shoulder, rough and warm. “Slow. I promise.”
A shiver slides through me, but it’s definitely not from the cold.
Slow.
That’s going to be the problem with him, I just know it. Because I’m not entirely convinced I want slow when it comes to him. Or Lawson. Or Beau. Or Jasper.
And that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.