12. Sage #3
I glance at Chance, whose expression has turned stony, then up at Holden. His arms are crossed, eyes slightly narrowed. Sterling gives the Ashlands a curt nod, which Gage returns with the faintest smirk. No one says a word, but the easy atmosphere from earlier has vanished.
While the men size each other up, the sister, Tessa, seems unconcerned.
She looks to be about my age, her long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Arms folded on the rail, she murmurs something to Colt.
Whatever she says earns a small nod before they both turn their attention back to the auction.
They’re not the only ones interested, judging by the way Chance straightens almost imperceptibly.
As soon as the auctioneer calls for opening bids, Chance joins in.
Across from us, Gage counters without hesitation.
They go back and forth like that until the numbers mean nothing to me.
By the time the gavel falls, I wouldn’t know who’d won if not for the grins on the Ashlands’ faces and Chance’s scowl.
“Don’t worry,” Taryn whispers. “He has his eye on some of the later lots. That was just a warm-up.”
A few more horses are sold, but when the next one enters the ring, Chance straightens.
“Is this one he’s got his eye on?” I ask.
Holden answers this time. “The mare’s from our breeding, and she’s in foal. The sire is good outcross blood. She and her foal will both be valuable additions.”
Even I can sense the difference in the bidding this time. The Ashlands join in, and murmurs from the crowd grow louder as the tension thickens.
Gage raises his paddle, and when Levi leans in, speaking in his ear, he frowns. Colt folds his arms and keeps his eyes on the mare, while Tessa stands at his side, hands on her hips.
This time, Chance makes the winning bid. His smile is tight, and I get the feeling the price was higher than he’d like to have paid.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of raised paddles and hammer falls. By the end, Wild Ember has five new horses to the Ashlands’ three.
When I look for the other family in the crowd again, they’ve disappeared.
“Congratulations,” I say to Chance.
He flashes me a grin. “The Ashlands drove up the prices higher than I’d like, which stings, but if these mares produce what I think they will, they’ll pay for themselves twice over.”
While he goes to collect the horse trailer, I follow the others to the loading area.
There’s dust and noise and the ever-present pungent smell of manure; I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get used to it.
As Taryn, Holden, and Sterling help Chance wrangle their new purchases, I stand back and watch the activity around me.
It doesn’t take long before I lift my camera and start shooting.
A few weeks ago, I’m not sure I would’ve found inspiration in the chaos in front of me.
But there’s something beautiful about it I can’t resist capturing.
I photograph the dust rising in the golden late-afternoon light as horses mingle in the pens, hooves striking the dry ground, manes tossing—a shifting patchwork of chestnut, black, gray, gold, and spotted coats.
It’s like a living mosaic.
Then there are the men and women working around them—earnest expressions, laughter, occasional flashes of anger.
It may appear chaotic, but the longer I look through the lens, the more I see the underlying order.
All those ranchers, cowboys, and cowgirls are fully part of this world, with a deeply ingrained sense of who they are and what they’re doing.
I pause, lowering my camera for a moment.
Have I ever felt that grounded in myself?
Pushing aside the thought, I move around the space, capturing everything I can. I spot the Ashlands, but I don’t linger, even though I’m more than a little curious about them.
When I track down the McBrides again, I take a moment to observe them from a distance.
I can’t quite figure out why, but it almost feels like there’s a divide.
The four of them work together with practiced ease, yet no matter how smoothly they operate, Holden remains on the periphery, while Taryn darts between them, as if unsure where to focus her attention.
I can’t resist taking a couple of photos, trying to capture whatever it is I’m seeing, though I’m careful not to include anything that would identify Holden.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re in the truck driving home. Taryn chatters happily about her new bridle in the back seat, and I flick back through the photos I took.
I pause on one of the last.
Holden is near the edge of the frame, turned away so his face isn’t visible. His head is tilted down, and he’s gripping his shoulder. I have no idea what was happening with him at that moment, but the tension in the line of his body makes my stomach twist. Was he in pain?
I’m probably reading too much into a split second I just happened to catch on camera, and there’s no reason to keep the shot, since I won’t use it for anything.
But I still find myself saving it in a separate folder. One I label Unfiltered.