17. The Rodeo Around Cactus Rose Ranch
The Rodeo Around Cactus Rose Ranch
~WILLA~
T he protein smoothie Mavi made tastes like redemption and humiliation blended with too much banana.
I drain the last of it, the cold glass sweating against my palm as I lean against the kitchen counter, trying to process the last hour. Security drills, he'd called them. More like a masterclass in mortification wrapped in education.
He'd shown me every camera angle, every sensor, every weak point in the ranch's defenses—all while wearing that knowing smirk that said he remembered exactly what sounds I'd made this morning.
"River's in the stables," Mavi says now, washing my empty glass with practiced efficiency. "Morning routine with the horses. You should go watch." His green eyes hold mine for a beat too long. "Unless you need more time to... recover."
Heat floods my face again, but I push off the counter with as much dignity as I can muster. "I'm fine."
"Never said you weren't." He dries his hands on a dish towel, movements precise and controlled. "Just saying, River's got a gentler teaching style than mine. Might be easier on your nerves."
My nerves are shot to hell, but not for the reasons he's implying.
Or maybe exactly for those reasons. The October morning had been crisp during our rounds, but I'd barely noticed the cold with Mavi's constant presence at my shoulder, his occasional touches to correct my stance or guide my attention. Professional touches. Mostly.
The walk to the stables gives me space to breathe.
My boots crunch over gravel, and I focus on the physical—the slight burn in my lungs from the morning air, the way my muscles protest after crawling through tight spaces to check sensor placements.
Anything to avoid thinking about how Mavi's scent clung to me during those close-quarters demonstrations, or how his rare praise made something warm unfurl in my chest.
The stable doors stand open, releasing the mingled scents of hay, horses, and something earthier—River's presence announcing itself before I even see him. I pause at the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the softer light, and find him in the third stall down.
He moves like water around the horses, every gesture deliberate but flowing.
A bay mare stands perfectly still as he runs his hands along her legs, checking for heat or swelling.
His black hair catches the light filtering through high windows, and when he murmurs something to the horse, she turns her head to nuzzle his shoulder with obvious affection.
"You can come in," River says without looking up. Of course he knew I was here—these men seem to have preternatural awareness of everything happening on their ranch. "Just move slowly. Willow here is still learning to trust new people."
I step inside, the packed earth soft under my boots. The stable smells alive in a way the main house doesn't—animal warmth and fresh straw, leather and grain, life continuing its ancient rhythms. "Willow?"
"Rescue horse." River straightens, one hand still resting on the mare's neck. "Came to us about six months ago, half-starved and scared of her own shadow. She's made good progress, but..." He shrugs, the movement gentle. "Trauma leaves marks, even when the body heals."
The words hit deeper than he probably intended. I approach slowly, watching Willow's ears swivel to track my movement. She's beautiful despite the visible ribs and dull coat that speak to past neglect—a dusty brown that might shine like mahogany with proper care.
"Stop there," River instructs when I'm still several feet away. "Let her look at you first. Horses need to assess threats before they can accept friendship."
So I stand still, hands at my sides, while a traumatized mare decides if I'm safe. The parallel isn't lost on me. River moves to a wall of equipment, selecting items with the same careful consideration he showed with the horse.
"We'll start with grooming," he says, returning with an array of brushes and combs.
"It's about more than making them look good.
It's trust-building, health-checking, communication.
" He holds up a rubber curry comb. "This first. Always start with the curry, work in circles to loosen dirt and stimulate circulation. "
He demonstrates on Willow's shoulder, his movements firm but gentle. The mare's eyes half-close in pleasure, and I feel an unexpected pang of envy. When was the last time someone touched me with such purposeful care?
"Your turn." River offers me the curry, our fingers brushing in the exchange. His skin is warm, calloused from work, and I have to focus on the tool instead of the brief contact. "Start where I was. She's used to being handled there."
I mirror his movements, trying to match the pressure and rhythm. Willow's skin twitches under the comb, but she doesn't move away.
"Good," River murmurs, and the simple praise makes my chest tight. "Feel how her muscles relax? That's her saying you're doing it right."
We work in companionable quiet for a while, River showing me each brush and its purpose.
The dandy brush for surface dirt, the body brush for shine, the face brush that's softer than baby's breath.
His hands guide mine occasionally, correcting my angle or pressure, and each touch sends warmth spreading from the point of contact.
"You weren't always a veterinarian," I say eventually, remembering breakfast conversations about their firefighting past.
River's hands still for just a moment on Willow's mane. "No. Wildfire specialist and paramedic with the Montana Department of Natural Resources." His voice drops lower, taking on a distant quality. "Thought I was saving the world, one blaze at a time."
I continue brushing, giving him space to continue or not. The mare's coat is starting to shine under our ministrations, revealing hidden depths of color.
"Lost my partner in the Sleeping Child fire three years ago.
" The words come out measured, careful. "Marcus.
We'd worked together for five years, had each other's backs through dozens of calls.
But that day..." River picks up a mane comb, his movements precise.
"Wind shifted. What should have been a routine defensive line turned into a death trap. I got out. He didn't."
My hand stills on Willow's side. "River, I'm so sorry."
"I quit the next week." He works through a tangle in the mare's mane with infinite patience.
"Couldn't look at fire the same way. But animals.
.." He gestures to Willow, to the other horses watching us from their stalls.
"They heal. They trust again, even after the worst happens.
Figured if they could do it, maybe I could learn. "
The stable feels smaller suddenly, more intimate. I'm acutely aware of his presence, the way his earthy scent mingles with horse and hay. When he moves around Willow to work on her other side, we're separated by only the width of a horse, but it feels like both too much and not enough distance.
"Pick up her hooves," River instructs, demonstrating. "Check for stones, thrush, any sign of injury. It's trust at its finest—they're giving you their ability to flee."
I follow his lead, marveling at how Willow lifts her hoof at the slightest pressure, balancing on three legs while I clean out the packed dirt. River's approval is silent but present, communicated through small nods and the relaxed line of his shoulders.
"She likes you," he observes as Willow turns to lip at my ponytail. "Animals know things about people. They don't care about your past or your designation or what anyone else thinks. They just feel your energy."
As if to prove his point, Willow lips at my palm, her whiskers tickling. Then she pushes her massive head against my chest, nearly knocking me back with the force of her affection. I freeze, overwhelmed by the trust this broken creature is showing me.
"She trusts you now." River's voice is soft, almost reverent.
My throat tightens painfully, and I have to blink hard against the sudden burn of tears.
This mare who has every reason to fear humans has decided I'm safe.
My scarred lungs catch on the next breath, the mingled scents of hay and horse and River's earth-and-sunshine presence overwhelming in the best way.
"Hey," River says gently, noticing my struggle. "It's okay. First time a rescue connects with you... it's always emotional."
But it's more than that.
It's the careful way he taught me, never condescending.
It's the trust he showed by sharing his grief.
It's the simple acceptance of my reaction without judgment or expectation.
After years of being managed, handled, controlled, this gentle guidance feels like glimpsing sunlight after a long winter.
Willow whickers softly, her breath warm against my neck, and I let myself lean into her solid presence while River watches with those green eyes that see too much and judge too little.
I leave the stables on unsteady legs, like a sailor finding land after months at sea.
Willow's trust sits heavy in my chest—a gift I didn't earn but was given anyway.
River had squeezed my shoulder before I left, a silent acknowledgment of what passed between us, and now I stand in the afternoon sun trying to remember how to be a person who doesn't cry over horses.
"There you are!" Austin's voice cuts through my emotional fog like sunshine through storm clouds.
He bounds toward me with an energy that belongs on motivational posters, his light brown hair catching gold in the light.
"River said you had a breakthrough with Willow.
That's amazing—she usually takes weeks to warm up to new people. "
I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "She's a special horse."
"They all are, in their own ways." Austin's hazel eyes study me with the kind of attention that sees past surfaces. "You okay? You look a little..."