Chapter 27 Racing Hearts
Racing Hearts
~REVERIE~
Isqueal—a sound somewhere between pure joy and absolute terror and exhilaration all mixed together—as Snowfall races forward at what feels like impossible, breathtaking speed.
Grayson's arm is solid and secure around my waist, holding me firmly against his bare chest while his other hand manages Snowfall's leather reins with practiced expertise that comes from years of experience.
The white mare moves beneath us like liquid silk, her powerful muscles bunching and releasing with each massive stride, her hooves thundering against the frozen ground in a rhythm that matches—and somehow exceeds—my racing heartbeat.
His skin is surprisingly warm against my back despite the November cold, his maple-honey Alpha scent mixing with horse and leather and winter air.
I can feel every breath he takes, every subtle shift of his body as he guides Snowfall with confidence that makes me feel completely safe even at this wild speed.
The wind whips through my hair viciously, stealing my breath, making my eyes water from the sheer force of it.
The air is sharp and cold against my flushed cheeks—stinging like tiny needles—but I barely notice the discomfort because this—THIS—is the most exhilarating thing I've ever experienced in my entire twenty-five years of existence.
I'm flying. We're actually flying across these fields like we've sprouted wings. This is what freedom feels like. This is what being alive feels like. Not surviving—actually living.
The crazy part—the absolutely mind-blowing, somewhat terrifying, incredibly exciting part—is that I'm not the only one racing across these open fields at breakneck speed.
Nash and Theo are riding horses just behind us, maybe twenty feet back and gaining.
Nash is on a stunning chestnut mare with a white blaze down her face and three white socks on her legs.
Theo is mounted on a powerful black stallion that looks like it stepped directly out of a dark fantasy novel—all muscle and attitude and barely contained power.
The three horses thunder across the open landscape in a race that seems equal parts competition and pure joy, their riders urging them faster with clicks and calls and subtle leg movements I don't fully understand but can feel the effects of.
I can hear Nash whooping behind us—loud and joyful and completely uninhibited.
I can hear Theo's deep laugh carried on the wind, rich and genuine in a way I'm learning is rare for him.
The sounds make something warm and bright bloom in my chest despite the cold air rushing past and stealing heat from my skin.
They're happy. We're all happy.
When was the last time I felt this kind of pure, uncomplicated happiness? When was the last time I wasn't worried about saying the wrong thing or being too much or not being enough?
I can't remember. Maybe never.
"You doing okay up there?" Grayson's voice rumbles against my back, loud enough to be heard over the pounding hooves and rushing wind. The vibration travels through me, grounding me even as we fly across the landscape.
I squeal again in pure glee, unable to form actual coherent words yet. My vocabulary has been reduced to excited sounds. My hands are gripping the front of the saddle so hard my knuckles are white and probably leaving indentations in my palms, but I wouldn't let go for anything in the world.
"Can we go faster?" Grayson asks, and I can hear the amusement coloring his tone, can practically hear his smile.
I finally find my voice, breathless and excited and probably way too loud.
"Faster? HELL YES! Faster! As fast as she can go!"
I feel his chest vibrate with laughter against my back. Then he makes a clicking sound with his tongue—sharp and clear—and gives Snowfall some subtle signal with his legs that I don't understand but she clearly does, and somehow—impossibly—we go even faster.
The landscape blurs into streaks of color.
Fields of frost-covered grass rush past on both sides like we're traveling through a tunnel.
Bare trees with twisted, skeletal branches frame our path like ancient guardians watching our race.
The sky above is a watercolor painting of oranges and pinks and purples and deep blues as the sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon, creating that magical hour photographers call golden hour.
The light catches on Snowfall's white coat, making her glow like something ethereal.
Everything feels magical, surreal, and perfect.
My phone is in my jacket pocket, pressing against my hip like it's trying to remind me of its existence. An idea strikes me with sudden brilliance—the kind of idea that's either genius or completely ridiculous.
This is too perfect not to share. This moment, this feeling, this experience. My followers would absolutely lose their collective minds seeing this. The kind of content people dream about.
Real, authentic, thrilling.
I carefully release one hand from the saddle—immediately second-guessing this decision when Snowfall makes a slight turn—and reach for my phone with shaking fingers.
"Think I can go live?" I shout over the wind.
Grayson chuckles, the sound rich and warm.
"You can try. At least if you drop this phone, it's not the brand new one you just got."
I laugh despite my nervousness.
"I won't drop it! I have an iron grip!"
"I'd find it for you either way if you did drop it," he says reassuringly, his arm tightening slightly around my waist. "So never fear. Just enjoy yourself. This is supposed to be fun."
I manage to unlock my phone with one hand—a feat that requires more coordination than I thought possible while racing across a field on horseback—and open Instagram.
My fingers fumble slightly but I hit the live button.
The stream starts and I watch the viewer count jump immediately.
Ten people. Twenty. Fifty. One hundred.
"HI GUYS!" I shout into the phone, trying to be heard over the wind. "I'M ON A HORSE! AN ACTUAL REAL HORSE!"
It takes me a second to angle the camera away from my face—which is probably red and windswept and completely chaotic—and flip it to the front-facing view so my followers can see what I'm seeing.
The fields spread out before us in the camera frame like a painting come to life.
They're not completely bare yet—winter hasn't fully claimed them.
There are still patches of last autumn's leaves clinging stubbornly to life on the ground, mixed with crystalline frost that sparkles like thousands of tiny diamonds scattered across the earth in the fading sunlight.
Some areas still have grass that waves gently in the breeze we're creating as we move past, while other sections show the brown earth preparing for winter's rest.
The scene is absolutely breathtaking in a way that makes my chest ache with how beautiful it is. Especially with the sun beginning to set on the horizon in spectacular fashion, painting absolutely everything in that magical golden light that photographers spend years trying to capture.
The frost glows like it has its own internal luminescence.
The bare tree branches cast long, dramatic shadows across the fields.
And in the distance, those dark storm clouds are gathering like an army preparing to march across the sky, creating a stunning contrast between the warm golden light where we are and the ominous darkness approaching.
This looks like something from a high-budget period drama. The scene that makes people fall helplessly in love with small-town life and dream about leaving the city behind. Content that goes viral not because it's manufactured or staged, but because it's genuinely, authentically beautiful.
The comments start flooding in immediately, scrolling past so fast I can barely read them individually.
OMG ARE YOU COLD????
shes living the DREAM
cowboy small town life hits different
WHERE IS THIS I NEED TO MOVE THERE
IS THAT THE SHIRTLESS COWBOY FROM BEFORE????
the cinematography omg
THIS IS BETTER THAN NETFLIX
girl youre living in a romance novel
I try to read comments while keeping the camera steady and not falling off the horse—multitasking at its finest.
"I'm not cold at all! The adrenaline is keeping me warm! And yes, this is exactly what cowboy small-town life is like!"
Grayson begins to slow Snowfall gradually with movements so subtle and practiced I barely notice the transition until the thundering hooves become a steadier three-beat canter, then a bouncing trot that makes my teeth chatter slightly, then finally a smooth, walking pace.
My heart is still racing wildly even as the mare's pace decreases to something manageable and calm.
The timing is absolutely perfect because we're approaching what can only be described as a massive, sprawling, incredibly impressive ranch that makes my jaw literally drop open.
And when I say MASSIVE, I mean it could probably fit my entire old apartment building three times over.
I gawk openly at the sprawling property, unable to hide my shock or maintain any semblance of cool composure.
"Holy crap! This ranch is HUGE! This is insane! How big is this place?!"
There's a main barn that looks like it could comfortably house at least thirty or forty horses, painted a traditional deep red with crisp white trim that stands out beautifully against the darkening sky.
The structure is enormous—maybe 10,000 square feet or more—with multiple levels visible through the open upper doors where hay bales are stacked neatly.
Multiple paddocks and corrals spread out in different directions like spokes on a wheel, each one properly fenced with sturdy posts and rails.
Some have horses grazing peacefully even in the fading light—their coats ranging from chestnuts to bays to grays, some wearing winter blankets in various colors.