FIFTEEN. #2
I kick my heels into his sides, and he surges forward through the mud.
I unravel the lasso from where it’s coiled around the saddle horn, the wet rope heavy and slick in my hands.
My heart hammers as Tacoma matches her frantic pace along the fence line.
She bolts one way, then skids to a stop and spins, charging back the other direction like she’s trapped in her own panic.
I guide Tacoma in a wide arc until I’m running just ahead of her.
I widen the loop of the lasso and hold it steady, waiting for the right moment.
When she rushes forward I pull the reins lightly, making Tacoma slow just enough, and her head drops right into the loop.
I yank to tighten it, and she rears back hard, hooves pawing the air.
Tacoma jolts sideways as she slams into his shoulder.
The rope burns across my palm, but I wrap it twice more around my glove, gritting my teeth against the sting, refusing to let go.
“Come on, June!” I shout over the rain. Her head swings toward me, eyes wild, front legs bucking in protest. “Ever’s waiting for you, Princess. Let’s go. Come on!”
I pull steady on the line and nudge Tacoma forward again.
I hate forcing her like this—hate the way the rope digs into her neck, the way her panic makes my stomach twist—but there’s no gentle coaxing that’s going to work tonight.
Not with lightning still flickering on the horizon and the storm refusing to let up.
“Let’s go, Junie,” I murmur again, softer this time, almost pleading.
Something shifts. Her ears flick toward my voice, and the fight drains out of her just enough. She stops resisting and falls into step beside Tacoma, running with us now instead of against us.
The storm seems to exhale. It’s still pouring, but the wind has dropped, and the lightning feels farther away. I let out a long, shaky breath as the barn comes into view across the pasture.
We burst through the open doors, mud and water spraying behind us.
Ever is already there, rushing forward to grab June’s lead the second we slow.
Tacoma circles a few times, sides heaving, nostrils flared, until I can ease him back to a walk and swing down from the saddle.
My legs feel unsteady when my boots hit the concrete, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin.
Ever leads June away, speaking low and calm, guiding her into a new stall farther down the aisle. I turn to Tacoma, running a soothing hand down his damp neck.
“Nice job, Tacoma.” I pat his flank gently, then lead him to the tie post and secure him there.
My fingers work quickly—saddle off, blanket folded, bridle slipped free—until he’s comfortable in his own stall with a generous pile of hay and pellets. I go to the feed room and grab a few apples and carrots, then bring them to June’s new stall.
I pause in the doorway. Ever stands inside with her, brushing June’s wet mane back from her face, murmuring soft words. June’s ears flick forward, calmer now, breath slowing. I set the fruit in the feed barrel and step back to give them space.
I check the bolts on the new stall door twice, just to make sure nothing’s loose. When I get to the entrance I glance down at myself—shirt plastered to my body, jeans heavy with mud, boots caked—and let out a tired huff.
The barn door slides open behind me, then shuts with a firm click. Ever checks the latch before her footsteps approach. When I turn, she’s looking me over—eyes tracing the soaked fabric clinging to my shoulders, the mud streaked across my thighs—before lifting her gaze to mine.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft.
I nod once, throat tight. “Let’s get you back.”
She doesn’t argue. I lead her to the sliding door, lock up behind us, and we run through the downpour to the truck.
When I park in front of her house the rain has eased to a soft, steady patter against the roof, but Ever doesn’t move right away. She sits there beside me, fingers twisting in her lap, then turns her head just enough to meet my eyes.
“Do you wanna come in?” she asks quietly.
I look over at her. There’s a hesitation in her voice, a flicker of nerves in the way she holds herself. I shake my head slightly, not wanting to put her in the position of offering out of politeness.
“I don’t wanna track too much mud through your place,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the mess coating my boots and jeans.
She nods slowly, scooting toward the edge of her seat, gaze drifting aimlessly toward the house. For a second she looks almost disappointed. Maybe she doesn’t want to be alone.
“Unless you’re just trying to get snuggles out of me,” I add, keeping my tone light, teasing.
She scoffs, but her cheeks flush a deep pink, the color visible even in the dim glow from the porch light. “No, it’s fine,” she mutters, shaking her head like she’s trying to shake off the embarrassment.
I push my door open before I can overthink it. She watches me as I circle around the truck, boots squelching in the wet gravel. When I pull her door open, she just stares up at me for a beat, like she’s not sure what I’m doing.
“Come on, Princess,” I say, offering my hand.
She scoffs again—smaller this time—then swings her legs out and slides down to the ground. She leads the way to the porch, unlocks the door, and holds it open so I can step inside first.
I move carefully, hyper-aware of every muddy footprint I leave on the hardwood. She kicks off her own boots by the door, then disappears down the hall without a word. A moment later she’s back with a thick towel, which she spreads out on the floor like a makeshift mat.
I stand there, dripping, looking down at myself. There’s no way I’m walking any farther into her house like this—not without making a disaster of the place.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I say, half-laughing at the absurdity of it, though the truth is obvious. The only way forward is to strip down completely.
She bites her lip, a small, unconscious gesture that sends a jolt through me, enough to get me into action.
I kick off my boots and set them neatly on the towel, then unbuckle my belt.
I shove the wet denim down my hips and step out of it.
Ever turns quickly when I do, facing the wall like that’ll somehow give me privacy, but I catch the way her breath catches.
I peel my shirt over my head next, the fabric sticking stubbornly before it comes free, and I’m left standing there in nothing but my briefs, skin prickling in the cooler air inside.
“You’re gonna have to wash these,” I say, holding the bundle out toward her.
She glances back, cheeks blazing now that she’s looking at me—really looking. Her eyes travel up my chest, over my shoulders, then down again. I don’t move, don’t cover up. I let her look.
She steps forward and takes the clothes from my hands. Her fingers brush mine, still cold from the rain, and she clears her throat as she retreats a step.
“There’s, uh…” She pauses at the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing vaguely. “My uncle Ray’s clothes are in boxes in their bedroom. They’re clean. So if you wanted something to wear, you can go through them.”
I raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You still have his clothes?”
She shrugs, the motion small and almost defensive. “I guess my aunt couldn’t bring herself to throw them out.” She pauses, then adds more quietly, “And maybe I couldn’t either.”
It’s been months since she moved here, and the house still feels like it belongs to them more than to her.
The furniture, the pictures on the walls, the clothes still folded in drawers.
I wonder if she’ll ever claim it as hers, if she’ll ever unpack her own life into these rooms instead of living around the edges of theirs.
If she’s really planning to stay—and God, I hope she is—I want her to feel like this is home.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my voice even.
She turns toward the hallway, her shoulder bumping the corner as she goes. She fumbles through the door to the laundry room and I’m left standing in the entryway, skin still chilled, heart beating a little too hard.