Chapter 17 Abigail
Chapter seventeen
Abigail
Lincoln brings Ranger around first, his beautiful chestnut coat glistening beneath the small flakes that land there, the white blaze down his nose a stark contrast against the rest of him. The horse stands tall, calm, the way you’d expect of something that knows exactly who he belongs to.
But that’s nothing compared to the sight of Lincoln settling into the saddle.
The man looks like he was right. He’s been wearing those chaps long before he ever became a lawyer.
He looks like a natural. Like the leather of the saddle molds to him the moment he sits, like the reins were made for his hands—big and steady.
And I can’t see them beneath the layers of clothes, but I just know that the muscles in his forearms are flexing as he adjusts his grip.
Heat pools in my core the longer I stare at him.
As he rides over to me, I know he’s a man who doesn’t need to prove anything; he’s a man who knows this land.
He looks quieter on the back of Ranger. Calmer. Like the edges of him have instantly softened. Not vanished, but settled. He fits up there in a way that tells me the saddle is the one place his mind can finally stop running.
Lincoln glances at me as I swing up onto Griffin. “Ready, Sweetheart?”
Third time.
I really need to get a grip.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, trying not to melt into a literal puddle.
We start at a slow walk, hooves crunching rhythmically over the fresh snow, the sky shining blue against the covered mountain ridges. Our breaths come out in clouds in front of us, before fading into the cold air.
“So…” I say, trying to distract myself from staring at the way his jacket pulls across his broad shoulders. “You ride often? Because I haven’t seen you out here once since I arrived.”
“Usually in the mornings.”
“Before everyone wakes up?”
“Yep.” His gloved hand strokes Ranger’s neck. “It’s quiet. Peaceful. There’s no paperwork. No brothers. No Beau singing in the kitchen like he’s auditioning to be the next cowboy country superstar.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
“He’d give it to you for free.” He pauses, amusement tugging at his mouth. “But the winter cuts into my riding time. Less daylight means less saddle time. I don’t get to spend as much time riding Ranger as I’d like.”
“Light is overrated,” I say.
Light is overrated? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jesus, Abs.
“Says the girl who nearly face-planted into a feed bucket last week because she couldn’t see it even with all the lights on.”
I gape at him. “You—you saw that?”
“Sweetheart, the entire barn saw that. Plus, I see more than you think I do.”
“Oh my god.” I slap a hand over my forehead. “I was really hoping I played that cool.”
“Not a chance. But it was impressive, I’ll give you that. Ten out of ten recover.”
“You’re awful when you start talking more.”
“You’re welcome.”
There’s that light laughter between us again. Despite how hard he fights it, it’s too natural for two people who barely know each other. But that’s the entirety of the last couple of weeks, I guess. With all of them. Except Lincoln, of course. He’s done everything he can to keep his distance.
Until today.
We ride farther following the fenceline where the snow deepens into drifts. Everything around us looks like a painting. Griffin keeps glancing at Ranger like he’s trying to act cool but is secretly thrilled to be here.
Lincoln burrows further into the collar of his jacket. “I… um… I meant to tell you… the car Lawson gave you.”
“Yeah?”
He exhales, the sound heavy. “It was my ex-wife’s. Melissa.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“I don’t know… I didn’t need to tell you,” he goes on, sounding almost irritated. Not with me but with himself. “But if you’re using it, you should know.”
“Wh-what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
He shifts slightly in his saddle. “Met her in college. Married her at twenty-three. Thought I knew what I was doing. I didn’t.
” A bitter laugh escapes him. “She cheated on me. Jasper found out first. Caught her at the rodeo in Billings with some guy he competed against. He told me, and I signed the papers six weeks later.”
My chest twists. “I’m sorry.”
He nods once. Not dismissing my apology, just absorbing it.
Then, like he realizes he’s said more in the last minute than he intended to all week, he says, “Anyway… how was your life in New York?”
My whole body freezes, and so does Griffin beneath me.
Lincoln instantly looks like he wants to rewind time. “Abigail. Sweetheart—shit.” He pulls Ranger closer and reaches out, his hand landing warm and gentle against my thigh. His thumb rubbing small circles. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
The sincerity in his voice hits deeper than the words. And he’s right. But also… I’m tired of running from this. From all of it.
Taking a slow breath, I shake my head ever so slightly. “No. It’s okay. Really.”
He watches me carefully. Waiting. So I tell him.
Not everything. Not the darkest corners of my past. But enough that the shape of who I am and how I got here is clear.
“My family owed the Bratva a debt,” I start quietly.
“A big one. And instead of paying it in money… they paid with me and my sister.” Lincoln’s jaw goes hard, but he stays silent.
“The Novikovs took me in an arrangement. I was supposed to marry Aleksandr, the older of the two brothers. The one that was a little more sane. He was the heir.”
Ranger shifts, but Lincoln’s hand stays steady on my leg.
“When Aleksandr was killed, instead of letting me go, they passed me along to his brother, Maxim. Like I was nothing more than a piece of property.” I can feel the tears sting the backs of my eyes. “I was… I was nothing to them. Nothing but leverage. Nothing but something to trade and control.”
Lincoln blows out a breath so rough I can feel the intensity of it deep in my chest.
“My older sister, Katerina, disappeared a year-and-a-half ago” I add. “Gone. No answers. And I think… I think part of me always knew the same thing might happen to me. Because I know Kat’s gone because of them.”
The silence that follows my admission is heavy but not uncomfortable. It’s protective. Grounding.
Lincoln swallows hard. “Abigail,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on my leg.
Not possessive but protective. Then slowly, so damn slowly, his hand moves from my leg up to my face.
And even through the glove I can feel the warmth of him as it rests on my cheek, his thumb brushing against me just as it was my thigh.
“Sweetheart. You didn’t deserve any of that. ”
My chest aches at the softness in his voice. The anger simmering beneath it is on my behalf. I force a small smile as my mind races through the rest of the story. Parts I still can’t bring myself to say out loud. “That’s the CliffsNotes version, anyway.”
His eyes lift to mine, slow and steady as if he is memorizing everything about me in this moment. “Thank you. For trusting me enough to tell me. I know I haven’t made it easy.”
I shrug, but it’s weak. “You shared something too.”
“Not like that,” he says hoarsely.
I look ahead, unable to handle the intensity behind his stare, toward the snowy field stretching out in front of us, and he drops his hand. “Maybe we’re both getting better at this.”
“Maybe,” he says. Then, gently, he straightens in his saddle. “Come on. Let’s keep riding.”
We start forward again—slow, just like he promised—but my pulse is anything but. Not even close.