Chapter 9
“All right now. Show me you can behave like a gentleman.” Grace’s breathing is steady, but her heart thuds against her ribs in a wary rhythm.
She keeps her voice even and soft as she sweet-talks Waylon, turning up all the charm in hopes that it’ll coax him into letting her slide the saddle smoothly onto his back.
He’s been resistant to it since the Cooper incident—the same way he’s been resistant to everything.
Any finessing she’s attempted has been futile up to this point; he’s done nothing but snort and sigh at her for the past forty-eight hours despite her plying him with all of his favorite foods.
Unaware of the fiasco entirely, Renata had come by the previous evening under the pretense of “craving Forty’s fajitas,” but in reality, she’d wanted to get a temperature check on how things were going, on where Grace was in the timeline of saddle-breaking.
Grace had been honest—he was making good progress and would be ready to ride much sooner than expected.
At least, he would be when he decided to stop being ornery and resentful—but Grace couldn’t be angry with him for that.
A bunch of idiots had invaded his space and grabbed at him when, after nearly two weeks together, he’d only just gotten comfortable enough to let her touch him. She understands his fury.
Renata hadn’t seemed especially concerned, but she’d asked Grace to come by the house for lunch the next day to discuss everything in more detail. To Grace—someone who was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop—that only meant one thing. Time is running out.
“I know you’re not happy about this,” Grace murmurs to Waylon.
She’s inching around his body at a painfully slow pace, gently dragging the saddle across his hair.
“And believe me, I’m not, either. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do.
” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “But I need your help. I need you to do this for me.” Or I won’t get to stay is the frightful thought that follows her plea.
Then, she swears Waylon actually sighs at her words—whether in annoyance or acceptance, only time will tell.
“Thank you,” she says as she approaches his other side, the place from which she’ll hoist the saddle onto his back.
If he cooperates, it will be a fluid movement, less than thirty seconds.
If he doesn’t and decides he’d prefer to bolt off in the opposite direction, she’ll probably tumble to the ground and earn herself a face full of dirt, maybe a broken arm. “Let’s see it, Waylon.”
She tries not to hold her breath. She really does.
Horses pick up on things like that. They echo it.
But it’s something she does without even thinking, sucking in a long breath through her nostrils and then clamping down her mouth as she lifts the saddle into the air and prays to God he stays still.
By some miracle, he does. For the entire fifteen seconds it takes to lift the saddle and let it slide onto his back, Waylon is a statue of calm.
Grace’s eyes widen as this unfolds, as the saddle settles and the horse remains still.
Her heart, pounding but slightly softer now, squeezes.
In this moment, with all of his steadiness, all of his quiet resolve, he reminds her of Vesta.
Grace exhales sharply, all the breath shuddering out of her lungs in a gust of profound relief.
She smiles, reaches out, and runs a hand over Waylon’s shoulder.
“Excellent,” she tells him. Admiring the way he looks so experienced and professional with the saddle now sitting comfortably on his back, she adds, “It looks good on you.”
They walk around the enclosure for a few laps, Waylon steady at her side.
The sun beats down on them both, not even a streak of cloud in the sky for respite.
Sweat drips down Grace’s back, plastering her white tank top to her skin.
Little curls have begun to sprout near her forehead, her ears, and the nape of her neck.
This kind of heat—it’s the kind that can convince someone they’ve never felt a cool breeze in their life.
The kind that penetrates every molecule and worms its way into the brain. The kind that makes people go nuts.
“All right, now this part I know you’re not gonna love.
But you’re gonna have to trust me,” Grace says, forcing her voice to be low and soft.
Without giving herself enough time to hesitate nor giving Waylon enough time to second-guess her, she slips her boot into the stirrup and pushes down, then immediately releases her hold.
Waylon gives way, leaning over with Grace’s weight, and though he looks slightly perturbed by the movement, he doesn’t seem angry.
She repeats the motion, even leaving her boot in the stirrup and sort of bouncing herself on it to try to get him used to the movement, the feel of having to bear someone else’s weight.
He is surprisingly compliant, and Grace decides to give it a go, hoping against hope that if he does buck her off, she’ll land on the shoulder that isn’t freshly healed from a dislocation.
When she fully mounts Waylon for the first time and he does nothing but accept it—albeit with a little impatient-sounding grunt once she’s settled—no one is around to see it except for Duke.
The older horse watches them carefully, and Grace swears she sees something like pride flash in his expressive eyes.
Grace pets Waylon’s neck, giving him a few encouraging scratches, telling him in her softest voice that he’s good, he’s smart, he’s such a quick learner.
This seems to work on Waylon; buttered up and amenable, he even takes a few cautious steps with her on his back, and he remains remarkably steady.
When Grace dismounts ten minutes later, the grin on her face is wide and wild.
Excitement and pride course through Grace’s veins as she washes her hands and splashes water on her face in the barn sink.
Since the night before, she’d been dreading the worst-case scenario happening: She wouldn’t be able to get Waylon to allow the saddle or allow himself to be mounted; she’d have to tell Renata she isn’t nearly as far along as she’d claimed.
She’d fail her trial run at Halcyon and be back in that dingy one-stoplight town by sunset.
Now, there’s a tentative relief that has her quickly drying her hands and checking her clothes for any excess grime.
Relief, and a glimmer of hope that getting him saddled today will mean she’s secured her place here.
On the walk toward the main house, Grace admires the wildflowers surrounded by a sea of neatly mowed grass.
They stand out, vibrant and wild—colorful rebels refusing to conform to the rigidity of the pin-straight blades.
She counts the spiderwort sticking upward through patches of better-known blooms, like the runt of the litter trying to get its own slice of affection.
But the primroses are her favorite. They’re a perfect blend of pink and purple, lush and elegant, never demanding attention but attracting it all the same.
All thoughts of flowers and whimsy dissipate like mist on the wind when the main house comes into view, because sitting in the driveway behind four Halcyon trucks is a government-issued vehicle.
The Texas Department of Agriculture, by the looks of it.
A flare of unease threads through Grace’s ribs at the sight of the logo on the side of the white truck, and, on instinct, her feet stop in their tracks.
Some part of her figured this might happen—if Bellamy was going to go down, he was going to take everyone with him. But she didn’t think it would be now. It’s too soon. It feels like she just got to Halcyon, and now he’s going to take it away from her, the same way he’s taken everything else.
Grace gulps down a dry, scraping swallow, the heat suddenly stealing all the moisture out of her body.
Her heart races as she clocks the front door swinging open and two men walking out onto the wraparound porch, Renata following close behind them.
The three of them stand together for a minute or so, chatting amiably, and then, like something out of a nightmare, Renata’s head swivels in Grace’s direction.
She spots her immediately, and the men follow her gaze. Renata waves at her—they don’t.
Grace doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen next. Does not turning her uncle in for his crimes count as abetting? Can the TDA even arrest people? But then Renata’s wave turns beckoning. Insistent. Much to Grace’s confusion, she notices after a couple of steps forward that Renata is smiling.
Renata leans onto the porch railing with her forearms as Grace approaches. “How are you, darlin’?”
Grace manages a smile, halfhearted and slightly trembling. “I’m just fine, thanks,” she replies. “How are you?”
“Oh, happy as a pig in mud.” She nods in the direction of the troopers, and Grace turns to find them both looking at her.
“Grady, Tripp, this is Grace,” Renata says.
“She’s workin’ on Tasha’s stud for us. Grace, Grady and Tripp.
” She waves a hand between Grace and the two men.
“Two of the TDA’s finest outreach specialists, who tried and failed to ruin my good mood just now.
All they ever do is deliver me bad news. ”
Grace’s throat tightens. Here it comes. Her breathing starts to quicken, growing more erratic with every passing second.
They start to walk toward her, slowly, deliberately, and it takes every ounce of willpower Grace has not to bolt.
To turn tail and run as fast as her legs will take her.
They’re closing in, now less than an arm’s length away, and she considers turning around and putting her hands behind her back.
Maybe if she does it without them having to ask, they won’t hurt her.