Chapter 8
It’s long past midday by the time I finish in the barn. If the swaggering cowboy hadn’t shown up, I might have been done earlier, but it took me nearly half an hour to calm my temper, my work slowed by the hurt lancing through my chest at his accusation.
It’s stupid really. Colter is a stranger. Someone I barely know and yet, his subtle accusation feels as if he speared me with the very pitchfork he held in his hands.
“About time.” Pace leans against the barn wall and smirks as he watches me putting away the wheelbarrow and the shovel. “The men had bets on how long it would take the city princess to finish her only chore for the day.”
Clenching my jaw to keep from biting back at him, I choose to shoot him a scowl, which only seems to deepen his smirk.
“Don’t take it personally, sis,” he jibes, his eyes lit up with mischief. “We don’t get much new entertainment these days.
“Glad I could amuse you all,” I mutter, brushing straw off my jeans. My muscles ache, my palms are blistered, and I’ve got dirt smeared on my cheek. But I stand up straighter and meet his grin with a glare. “Hope the show was worth it.”
Pace pushes off the barn wall, walking toward me with the same easy, lazy gait all the men around here seem to be born with. “Don’t be so grumpy. I’m here to reward you.”
I narrow my eyes. “With what? Another chore?”
He laughs, a real one this time, not the sharp-edged sarcasm he usually throws around. “Nah. I figured it’s time.”
“For what?”
His grin turns boyish. “Your first ride.”
I blink. “I thought we agreed I wasn’t—”
“We didn’t agree on anything,” he says, tossing me a helmet from the tack shelf. “You just made excuses.”
I catch it on instinct, almost dropping it. “I don’t know how.”
“That’s why I’m here, genius.”
He’s already striding toward the paddock before I can argue, whistling for one of the hands to bring a saddled horse around.
I linger at the barn door, part of me rooted in place with nerves.
It’s not the horse I’m scared of— it's falling.
Of losing control. Of proving every one of their smug little bets right.
“Come on, Peyton,” Pace calls, patting the horse’s shoulder. “She’s a sweetheart. Old Lady May. Calm as a Sunday morning.”
I glance at the mare, a tall, chestnut with wide brown eyes that watch me with passive curiosity. She does look… sweet. Still, my stomach knots as I step closer.
Pace’s voice gentles. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to get on.”
I slide the helmet on, my fingers trembling a little as I fasten the strap. He nods in approval but doesn’t say anything more as he offers his hand to help me into the saddle. I hesitate. He notices.
“You’ve done scarier things,” he murmurs low, only for me. “You’ve survived worse.”
The words hit deeper than they should. Because he’s not wrong.
I nod once, grip his hand tight, and let him boost me into the saddle.
The moment I settle in, my heart jumps, but the mare doesn’t move. She stands still, patient, like she knows I’m not sure yet. Pace adjusts the stirrups for me, then looks up with a crooked smile.
“There. Easy. Now hold the reins like this…” He demonstrates, guiding my hands. “Loosen up. She’s not gonna throw you.”
I breathe in. Deep. Slow. The leather reins are warm from the sun, the mare shifting gently beneath me. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.
Pace clicks his tongue and starts walking beside us, hand on the lead rope. “You’re doing fine.”
A gust of wind carries the scent of sun-baked earth and hay. The mare’s ears twitch. I grip tighter but Pace shakes his head. “Loosen up. Trust her.”
We walk the fence line, and I don’t fall. I don’t panic. The sky is wide and blue and so open it makes my chest ache.
“See?” he says after a few minutes. “Told you she was a sweetheart.”
I don’t answer. Because I’m too busy realizing something.
I feel free.
“See?” Pace says after a few minutes, his voice warm with approval. “Told you she was a sweetheart.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Not when something unfamiliar and sharp is rising in my chest, threading through my ribs like light cracking through a boarded-up window.
For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, I don’t feel like I’m running. I don’t feel like I’m hiding behind locked doors and false smiles and a past I can’t escape.
I feel free.
The mare moves beneath me with a steady rhythm, her hooves a soft, comforting beat against the dirt. My confidence builds with each step, my body slowly syncing with hers, like we’re speaking a silent language I never knew I could understand.
“Now I want you to squeeze your legs a little tighter and cluck her on,” Pace says, nodding to the open stretch ahead. “That’ll get her moving. Let your body follow her lead. If you feel yourself getting off balance, don’t panic—keep the reins steady and grab the front of the saddle.”
I nod, swallowing the knot of nerves building in my throat. My fingers tighten around the reins as I press my heels gently into her sides and make a soft clicking sound, like Pace showed me.
The mare responds instantly, her gait shifting into something quicker, livelier.
The change jolts me at first—I feel my weight tip to one side—but I don’t fall.
I don’t freeze. I grip the saddle horn, steady myself, and let my body adjust to the new rhythm.
The movement is unfamiliar but not frightening. Not anymore.
“Good job,” Pace calls out, pride clear in his voice. “Look at you, riding like a natural.”
I circle the corral, the breeze tugging strands of hair loose from my braid, the sun warm on my face. For a second, I let myself believe I belong here.
Then I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye—John.
He’s leaning on the fence, arms crossed over the top rail, his face unreadable but his eyes cold and sharp, like he’s dissecting every move I make. Judging. Waiting for me to fail.
I force my gaze past him, chin lifting a little higher. My spine straightens. The temptation to flinch or shrink away is strong, but I push it down.
He may have passed along his blood, but he doesn’t get to judge me for the life I’ve been forced to live. I wasn’t pampered or spoiled. I’ve worked for everything, stowing away money so my mother couldn’t spend it on her habit.
I learned how to navigate chaos without falling apart. I learned how to survive in a house that never felt like a home.
I breathe in again, the air dry and full of dust and sunlight. It scratches a little in my lungs, but it feels clean. Real. Not like the smoke and lies I grew up choking on.
The mare continues her lap, ears flicking every time I shift my weight.
My movements are still clumsy, but I feel steadier now, more in control.
I glance over and catch Pace watching me, his grin still stretched wide across his face.
Pride shines in his eyes. Something I’m not used to people feeling when it comes to me.
“You’ve got good balance,” he calls. “Give her another cluck, see if she’ll trot.”
A flicker of hesitation rises, but I chase it away with a breath. I click my tongue again and apply a gentle squeeze with my legs. The mare perks up, then eases into a light trot. The new rhythm bounces me a little, but I tighten my core, keeping my hands steady like Pace showed me.
It’s rough at first, the jolt of each step rattling through my spine. But soon, I start to find the rhythm again, letting the mare’s movements guide me. My body sways with hers, not against. I stop fighting the motion and start riding with it.
I’m doing it.
A quiet laugh escapes my lips, more breath than sound, but real all the same.
I can feel the tension in my shoulders finally begin to uncoil.
There’s still dirt on my face and sweat sticking my shirt to my back, but right now I don’t care.
I feel strong. I feel capable. Not because anyone handed me something, but because I’m earning this moment, one careful movement at a time.
Behind me, I hear John’s boots scuff against the fence post. He shifts position, but I don’t turn to look. I don’t need to see the expression on his face. Whether he’s disappointed or indifferent doesn’t matter anymore.
I won’t let my life here be defined by his acceptance.
I never needed my mother’s, and I sure as hell don’t need his.
The mare slows back into a walk, and I let her. Pace nods from across the corral, his approval quiet but unmistakable.
“You’re a natural,” he says again, and this time it doesn’t sound like teasing. It sounds like truth.
A warmth flickers in my chest. Not the fiery heat of anger or shame I’ve grown so used to, but something gentler. Something like pride.
And for the first time since I stepped onto this ranch, I start to believe I might one day have a place here. Not because they feel obligated to keep me. But because I’ve earned it.