Chapter 29
The days slip past in quiet succession, one folding into the next with the steady, repeated rhythm of ranch life—feed at dawn, check water, mend what’s broken, and repeat.
A week has passed since the storm rolled through and scrubbed the sky clean, and the land still feels different because of it.
The grass in the low pasture has taken on a deeper green, and the air in the mornings carries that damp, living scent that only comes after heavy rain.
Yet, everything feels slightly off-kilter.
Easton has made himself at home here in a way that would almost be unsettling if it weren’t so natural.
He’s not cautious or waiting anymore. He anticipates and steps in without hesitation.
Like the rest of us, he moves like he’s memorized the routine of this place down to the smallest detail.
The first few days, Knox would needle him constantly, testing him like he was trying to see if it would crack.
Now, even Knox seems to have accepted that Easton is quiet, like Deacon and Dad.
It’s simply the way he is. Or maybe it’s the way he’s chosen to be.
I can’t stop noticing him. He’s impossible to ignore, even if the hot-and-cold emotional whiplash hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
This morning, the sun has barely risen when I walk into the barn. The air inside is cool, smelling like hay and grain. The horses stir in their stalls at the door sliding open, their hooves thudding softly against packed straw and hay.
Easton is already there. He always is. Near the feed bins, shoulders broad beneath his worn shirt, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows. His hat is low, shadowing his eyes, but his awareness settles on me the second I step inside.
“Morning,” I greet him.
He glances up briefly. “Morning.” Just one word, like there isn’t this current humming between us every time we occupy the same space.
We fall into the routine without needing to coordinate it—scooping grain, measuring minerals, and checking trough levels—the barn filling with the steady sounds of labor. The air is thick. I try to convince myself that this palpable tension is imagined, but I don’t believe myself.
“You’ll need this for the south trough.” Easton’s gaze falls to the heavy mineral bag he’s carrying.
I reach for it automatically as he sets it in the center of the aisle, and our hands meet.
It’s barely a brush, the side of knuckles against my fingers.
But it’s enough. The contact sends a sharp spark tingling up my arm.
My breath stutters before I can stop it.
Easton reacts instantly, pulling back. like he felt it, too. The bag drops to the floor as we both let go, creating distance between us.
“Thanks,” I manage.
He nods once, almost meeting my eyes, and quickly turns away. I stand with the feed bag at my feet like an idiot, heat still lingering under my skin. It’s ridiculous that something so small can feel so loud.
The rest of the morning passes without incident, but I’m aware of him the entire time—where he stands, the way he avoids being too close, and even the careful neutrality in his voice when he speaks. It feels deliberate. And that’s what frustrates me most.
By late afternoon, the paddock feels like an oven. The sun hangs heavy overhead, pressing heat into my shoulders and baking the dirt beneath Daisy’s hooves. Dust clings to my jeans and settles against my skin as I trot her around the fenceline to warm her up.
I need this.
The old barrels are set up in a triangle. Their paint is chipped and sun-faded, but they’ll do. Daisy shifts beneath me, energy humming through her, like she knows what we’re about to do. Her ears flick forward, then back, waiting for the cue.
I love racing a horse who loves to work.
“All right,” I murmur, adjusting the reins. We start at an easy lope, finding our rhythm. I focus on my posture—heels down, shoulders relaxed, and hands steady. Daisy doesn’t need tension from me. She needs clarity.
We approach the first barrel, and I feel that familiar spike of adrenaline.
I sit deeper in the saddle, press with my inside leg, steady the outside rein.
Daisy drops into the turn beautifully, pivoting tight enough that my knee nearly brushes against the metal drum.
Dirt sprays outward as my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
“Yes!” I exclaim on an exhale.
We drive toward the second barrel. Daisy feels strong and responsive, her muscles coiling and releasing beneath me, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
The second turn is tighter than the first. I notice the improvement and the subtle difference in how she balances through it.
I laugh under my breath, unable to contain the joy coursing through me.
By the time we charge at the third barrel, I let her stretch out a little more. Trust her and myself. My braid unravels as we round it hard and fast, my long hair flailing in the air with the dirt rising in a thick cloud behind us.
We finish the pattern, and I ease her into a trot as I lean forward to stroke her neck. “Good girl,” I whisper, grinning while I stroke her mane. “That’s how we do it.”
She flicks an ear at me. There’s nothing like this, the feeling of power and precision of racing barrels.
It makes everything else in my head go quiet.
I turn her in a wide circle and walk the fenceline again to cool down, letting my own breathing even out.
After filling my lungs deep, I tip my face toward the sun and close my eyes.
The heat presses into my skin, sweat cooling along my spine.
When she’s ready, I walk her back to the start and gather the reins. “Again.”
Daisy doesn’t hesitate, and we break into a faster canter this time.
I push her harder, asking for more speed but keeping control.
The first barrel comes up fast—I commit to it fully, leaning into the turn, trusting Daisy to hold her footing.
She does. It’s a perfect, tight turn. The second barrel is even better.
I can feel the difference in her stride, the way she plants and pivots without losing momentum.
We clear the third barrel clean, and I can’t help myself.
I let out a breathless and wild whoop that echoes across the paddock.
I slow her gradually, running my hand along her neck as she cools. “That’s what I’m talking about,” I praise, pressing my forehead briefly to her mane. “You’re incredible, Daisy.”
Daisy’s ears suddenly flick toward the fence.
I follow her gaze, and my stomach does a little flip.
Easton. He’s leaning against the top rail like he’s been standing there for a while, watching us.
There’s no mask on his face this time. No hard edges.
His expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it.
It’s completely unguarded. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe.
The world narrows, like it did across the pasture a few days ago.
I lift my chin slightly, forcing a calm I don’t entirely feel, before playfully calling out, “Timing me?”
His posture straightens, and his jaw sets, the mask sliding back into place, leaving him controlled and distant again. He tears his eyes away, and I swallow the ache that ensues.
This is what’s driving me insane. The push. The pull. These glimpses of something followed by walls put into place within seconds. It would be easier if he were cold all the time, if he never looked at me like that.
I let Daisy roam the paddock as I roll the barrels into the shed. When I finish, I grab Daisy’s reins and lead her into the barn with sweat trickling down my face. I rub my gloved hand across my face to keep it from falling into my eyes before working Daisy out of her bridle and saddle.
When I step out of the tack room after hanging her saddle, I collide with Easton. The impact is like walking directly into a wall. I rebound, and he quickly snakes an arm around my back to keep me from losing my footing.
“You’ve got something…” he mutters quietly, still holding me close to him. Close enough that I can see the faint lines spanning from the corners of his face and feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
“What?” I whisper on exhale.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb against my cheek in a slow, gentle motion. When he finishes, his palm shifts, tenderly cupping my jaw as his fingers spread slightly against my skin.
Everything inside me stills, except my heart. It’s working on overdrive, causing my pulse to pound loud in my ears, as his eyes meet mine. The distance in them that ebbs and waves is gone, leaving behind nothing but vulnerability so raw, it would steal the air from my lungs if I were breathing.
If I leaned forward—even half an inch—I’d be flush against him. If he dipped his head, just a little, our lips would touch. He blinks, breaking our stare, and it’s like watching someone wake up from a dream they didn’t mean to have.
His hand drops from my waist, and he takes a brisk step back. “Sorry,” he apologizes, his voice tight and controlled. “You had dirt.”
“It’s fine,” I lie, because it doesn’t feel fine.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, like it’s suddenly tight with tension. “I’ve got to check the north trough.”
It’s an excuse. Nothing more than a reason to retreat. He turns on his heel before I can respond. I watch him walk out of the barn with a bowed head and a rigid gait.
I don’t get it.
I don’t understand why he looks at me like he can’t wait to kiss me one moment and like I’m toxic the next. I can’t comprehend why he touches me like he can’t help himself, but then pulls back like it’s a mistake.
I’m not fragile.
If he doesn’t want this—whatever this is—he should stop looking at me like that. The problem is, I don’t think he knows what he wants, and I’m starting to realize that I don’t, either.