22. Live. Laugh. Ride
Live. Laugh. Ride
~WILLA~
T he October air hits different out here, away from the boutique's perfumed confines and the town's polite scrutiny.
My body still hums with aftershocks from River's mouth, muscles loose and languid as we guide the horses through the ranch gates toward open country.
Every shift in the truck seat on the way here had been a reminder— the tender ache between my thighs, the phantom pressure of his fingers, the way my new romper brushed against oversensitive skin.
But now, standing at the edge of this vast expanse of pastures and valleys, something else takes hold.
The field spreads before us like a promise written in wildflowers. They shouldn't be blooming—October in Montana usually means frost-kissed mornings and trees surrendering their leaves. Instead, purple asters and late-blooming yarrow dot the hillsides in defiant splashes of color.
The sun hangs high and proud, but the breeze carries winter's whisper, creating that perfect balance between warmth and chill that makes you feel every inch of your skin.
I inhale deeply, and the world floods in.
Sage and sweet grass, the earthy musk of horses, pine resin from the distant treeline.
No exhaust fumes. No concrete dust. No artificial everything pressing in from all sides.
My lungs, damaged as they are, seem to expand fuller here, like they remember how to work properly when the air is clean.
"God," I breathe, not quite meaning to speak aloud. "I'd forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" River's voice comes from behind me, gentle curiosity threading through the words.
"This." I gesture vaguely at everything—the endless sky, the rolling landscape, the profound quiet that isn't silent at all but filled with wind song and distant bird calls. "The way nature doesn't ask anything of you except to exist in it."
I sense him moving closer, bringing the horses, but he doesn't touch. We're both hyperaware of boundaries now, of the careful distance that needs maintaining for another twenty-two hours. Still, his presence warms my back like sunlight.
"Cities convince you that their noise is necessary," I continue, surprising myself with the confession. "That the buzz and hum and constant motion is life itself. But it's not. It's just... loudness. Drowning out the important things."
"Like what?" He's beside me now, holding both sets of reins, and when I glance over, his green eyes hold that same patient interest that undid me in the changing room.
"Like breathing. Like thinking your own thoughts instead of whatever advertising or anxiety is being pumped at you." I shake my head, embarrassed by my rambling. "Sorry. I'm being weird."
"You're being honest." He extends Willow's reins toward me. "Ready to remember something else you might have forgotten?"
I stare at the leather straps, my stomach doing a slow flip. "River, I haven't been on a horse since I was maybe ten. I'm going to be terrible."
"Define terrible." There's amusement in his voice now, that gentle teasing I'm learning is his way of easing tension.
"Like... falling off immediately. Or going the wrong direction. Or accidentally signaling the horse to gallop when I meant to stop." I'm only half-joking. My hands shake slightly as I take the reins.
"First of all, Willow here is smarter than both of us combined. She's not going to let you do anything too stupid." He runs a hand along the mare's neck, and she whickers softly. "Second, muscle memory is real. Your body learned young—it'll come back faster than you think."
"You have a lot of faith in my body," I say, then immediately flush at the double meaning.
River's lips quirk, but he keeps his voice professionally neutral. "Your body hasn't let you down yet, has it?"
The weight of that statement—after what we just shared, after the trust I placed in him—makes my throat tight. "No. I suppose it hasn't."
"Then trust it now. Come on." He moves to Willow's side, making a cradle with his hands. "Left foot here, swing your right leg over. I've got you."
The moment of contact, even through my boot, sends warmth shooting up my leg. His hands are steady, strong, and I try not to think about how they felt on my bare skin less than an hour ago. Focus, Willa.
I place my foot in his makeshift stirrup and push up, muscle memory indeed flickering to life. My right leg swings over Willow's back with more grace than I expected, and suddenly I'm mounted, looking down at River from a height that feels both foreign and familiar.
"See?" He grins up at me, pride evident in his expression. "Natural."
As he adjusts the stirrups for my height, his hands brushing against my calves with clinical efficiency, a memory surfaces unbidden. Grandpa's weathered hands doing the same thing, his voice patient as he explained about proper seat and gentle hands.
"You're thinking about something," River observes, stepping back to check the saddle's position.
"My grandfather." The words come easier than expected. "He taught me to ride on a pony named Buttercup. Terrible name for a horse, but I was seven and thought it was perfect."
River swings up onto his own mount with fluid ease. "Tell me about it."
So I do, as we begin walking the horses toward the open field.
I tell him about early morning rides when the dew still sparkled on spider webs.
About Grandpa's endless patience with a chattery little girl who wanted to go fast before she'd learned to sit properly.
About the stories he'd tell as we rode—ranch history mixed with tall tales until I couldn't separate fact from fiction.
"He'd let me ride until I was basically asleep in the saddle," I say, smiling at the memory. "Just walking the fence lines as the sun set, me swaying like a sack of grain, barely holding the reins."
"Sounds dangerous," River comments, but his tone is warm.
"It should have been. But I never felt safer." My voice goes soft, remembering. "He'd catch me before I could fall, every time. Lift me off Buttercup and carry me inside, my head on his shoulder. I'd wake up in my bed, boots off, tucked under the quilt like the ride had been a dream."
"Except it wasn't."
"No. It was real. The only real thing sometimes, when my parents..." I trail off, old pain threatening to surface.
River doesn't push, just guides his horse closer so we're riding side by side. "We can make new memories, you know. Starting now."
I look over at him, this man who just gave me pleasure without taking any for himself, who's teaching me I can be wanted without being consumed. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But first rule of new memories—you have to actually be present for them." His smile turns playful. "So whatever weight you're carrying from before? The cities, the expectations, the fears? Leave them back at the gate. Just for now. Just for this ride."
"That's a big ask, cowboy."
"I know. But you're a big girl. I have faith in your body, remember?"
That makes me laugh, surprising us both. "Okay. Present moment. I can do that."
"Good." He clicks his tongue, and his horse picks up the pace slightly. "Then let's see if your muscle memory extends to a trot. Heels down, shoulders back, and breathe. Everything else will follow."
I mirror his movements, and Willow responds instantly, her gait smoothing into that rolling rhythm I'd forgotten I knew.
My body adjusts without conscious thought, finding the sweet spot between tension and relaxation.
The world starts to move faster around us, and with it, my worries begin to fade.
Maybe River's right. Some part of me has always known how to do this—not just ride, but trust. Be present. To let go.
The field opens before us, endless and welcoming, and I follow River deeper into it, leaving my fears at the gate like he suggested.
For now, there's just this: horse and rider, earth and sky, and the promise of new memories waiting to be made.
The trot becomes a canter without me consciously deciding, just River calling out "Ready?" and my body answering before my mind can interfere.
Willow surges forward beneath me, smooth as water, and the world transforms into a blur of sensation.
Wind tears at my hair, whipping auburn strands across my face like silk fingers.
The romper's skirt flutters and snaps against my thighs, and I'm grateful for the new boots' solid grip in the stirrups.
This is flying while staying earthbound.
This is freedom with four hooves drumming rhythm into the earth.
My body remembers more than I gave it credit for—the slight forward lean, the give and take of the reins, the way my hips roll with Willow's movement like we're dancing partners who never forgot the steps.
"That's it!" River's voice carries over the thunder of hooves, bright with approval. "Let her run!"
So I do.
We streak across the pasture, dodging sage brushes and jumping small streams with an ease that makes me laugh—actually laugh, wild and uncontained. The sound gets stolen by the wind, but the joy remains, bubbling up from some deep well I'd capped years ago.
The landscape unfolds around us like a secret being revealed.
What looked like simple fields from the ranch gate shows its true face in motion—hidden valleys carpeted in late wildflowers, ancient cottonwoods marking water sources, rock formations that catch the afternoon light and throw it back in shades of amber and rose.
Sweetwater Falls isn't just pretty. It's raw beauty that doesn't need human approval, that exists whether we witness it or not.
I understand now why River brought me here, why he knew I needed this. In the boutique, he gave me permission to want. Out here, he's giving me permission to be. No walls, no witnesses except the red-tailed hawk circling overhead. No expectations except to stay mounted and keep breathing.