Eighteen | Harlow
Asoft haze hovers over the fields in the distance. The sun overhead attempts to pierce through, creating an effect in which the blades of frozen grass sparkle.
It’s beautiful.
However, it would be more peaceful if the silence didn’t feel loaded between Colson and me after last weekend’s event. Colson placed fourth, and, as he said, it was another weekend when I secured my place at the bottom.
It’s my own damn fault.
Since we got back a few days ago, I’ve been pondering what happened to my rides.
I’ve been sulking in uncomfortable silence with Colson when he isn’t training me on the mechanical bull in the barn or working out upstairs in the hayloft that was transformed into a gym.
He’s been at this for sixteen years, and it shows in his setup.
I expected a man like Colson to be hard, not to let anything crack through his exterior that I thought was as solid as steel.
I was wrong. My words were hurled into that impenetrable wall, and he felt it.
He clearly took it to heart when I said we should still act like we hate each other on the road and when we are competing.
I should’ve thought that request through.
Sure, avoiding each other is easy, but acting like we hate one another when he’s so generously offered to be my coach is another thing. I mean, he’s not getting anything out of this; I’m the one who will get to reap the rewards.
Hopefully.
An apology has almost escaped my mouth several times. Yet a part of me has a hard time letting those words slip off my tongue when he’s said more hurtful things to me than not.
We’re oil and water, stuck in the same bowl with nowhere to go but to float aimlessly around each other and endure the discomfort.
Colson and I are both hardheaded in our own way.
We’re messy.
Stubborn.
Trying to tame our wild enough to get past our differences seems impossible.
But if I consider why I’m here, the possible outcome outweighs the obnoxious negatives to this arrangement that my brain can’t get past. Which is why I’m making a peace offering, hoping it will loosen the strain between us and get us back on track.
In the distance, Colson picks up a bag of feed from a trailer bed, hefting it onto his shoulder.
I’m too far away, and he’s in a navy Carhartt sweatshirt.
Still, I imagine the way his muscles and tendons flex, tautening his skin in a way that could evaporate the blood in my veins.
He’s so infuriatingly handsome that my insides burn enough to shrivel to a crisp—like those worms that wriggle out of the earth during a fresh rain, not expecting the sun to claim their souls. If worms even have souls.
Tearing myself away from the window, I take a few lemon-blueberry crumble muffins from the metal tin on the counter and place them in a container.
My mom told me when I was younger that food is always the best kind of apology for a man.
Sex is probably another, but that’s out of the question.
I learned my baking skills from her, and when I’m not riding and training, it’s one of my hobbies, along with working with horses.
When my leg was healing, baking was the easiest way to stay active without boring me to death.
I bake the best bread when I’m anxious and can knead all my stress into the dough, which reminds me to book a virtual appointment with my therapist, Brenna.
I’ve been avoiding rescheduling my session with her due to my busy schedule.
I pick up the container of muffins and walk to the front door before putting on my boots that bunch up my sweats at my calves. I tug on my jacket and slip onto the porch, immediately noticing the cloud of breath that escapes my lungs when the warm air collides with the stillness of winter.
It’s not long before I’m approaching the stable.
Besides training and eating together the last few days, Colson and I have been avoiding each other, which has been easy since he’s been diving into ranch work from the time the sun gets up until it dips below the mountains.
Even before that, I hadn’t set foot in the stable.
The second I do, I pause to take it all in.
Timber beams span the alley from one stall to the next, with modern black metal facades and gates forming the stalls. Above, skylights let in ample light, creating a bright and welcoming space. The loft above has feed, equipment, and various other items.
Horses hang their heads over the doors to greet me, and one look at them brings a bright, joyous smile to my face. Through the black metal bars fronting each stall, I count four.
I step up to a brown one, placing my hand on its muzzle, softly stroking down.
Knowing that they are here gives me an odd sort of comfort that clashes with the twinge of homesickness that’s been stirring in my belly.
Sometimes, my dad would have clients with horses who were anxious, acting up, abused, or hardheaded, and he’d let me work with them.
I miss spending my time with them, building that trust. That communication.
Cultivating and strengthening the special language that connects a rider and their horse, showing their mutual loyalty.
Mel promised to take care of my horse, Alaska, while I’m not in Arizona, but leaving her doesn’t make it any easier. At least being around others will bring a sort of contentment that I wouldn’t find here otherwise.
I hope Colson will let me go riding.
The silky-smooth texture of the horse’s coat glides against my fingers. I glance under the horse’s stomach, locking eyes with the proof I was looking for.
“You’re such a sweet boy,” I croon.
His ears flick when a thumping sound from farther in the stable makes me jolt. It happens again, and the horse and I peer in the same direction before I quietly pad across the floor. My hands tighten around the container of muffins. It must be Colson. I’m sure of it.
When I near the back, where there are feed stalls and an open back door letting a chilly draft float through the space, my attention lands on the last stall with an older mare.
She paces back and forth in her stall anxiously, jerking her head in several directions uneasily.
Her coat is stunning, with brown and white spotting.
I’ve always admired paint horses and have worked with some, but I have never had one.
Aaron did.
And Alaska, my horse at home, is a white Appaloosa with black and gray spotting.
The mare eyes me suspiciously and releases a few tense snorts and whinnies. It’s not hard to understand why she is back here—she would make the other horses nervous.
I lean against the door and calm my breathing, just being present with her. After a few minutes, she settles and takes a few cautious steps toward the door, as curious about me as I am about her. But I don’t reach out and touch her—can’t be too hasty with a horse like this.
“So, you’re the black horse of the group, too, huh?” I say quietly. “I know how it feels.”
Her hooves move again until she’s so close that we’re sharing the same string of breath, staring into each other’s eyes like we can figure out a million things by one look alone.
Unexpectedly, she rears back, making a strangled grunt, catching me off guard.
Startled, I step back, hitting something hard.
Large hands whip out to steady my shoulders.
When I peer over my shoulder, Colson’s eyes are solidly locked on mine.
I may have a puffy winter coat on, but his body heat touches me all the same. It’s an unexpected comfort I shouldn’t want to sink into. “Sorry,” I breathe, stepping away from him like I’ve been burned by his touch. His hands fall from holding me. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“You got her to come close to you.” His voice is an octave lower than normal, and for some reason, I find myself wanting to cling to it. Which is confusing, since I could replay it in my head like a soothing lullaby or listen to it on repeat as my fingers slip inside me.
“What?” I ask. Why am I breathy?
He stands there, pondering what to say. “She hasn’t let anyone near her in a long time. But you—she came up to you.”
I watch the mare continue pacing at the back of the stall, similar to how I found her. “But she got scared of me.”
“No.” He moves to stand beside me but keeps his distance.
He takes his cowboy hat off, pulling his fingers through his hair, and places it back on.
“She saw me come up behind you. I wonder if she would’ve let you touch her if I didn’t interrupt whatever”—he waves a hand trying to find a word—“moment you two were having.”
“The others are so docile. Why do you have her? It’s not like you have a ton of time to work with or ride her.”
“I don’t know—” A soft red hue floods his cheeks.
Colson lets out a solemn sigh and swallows.
“I guess there are some connections that are hard to let go of.” His chest rises and falls, like he’s contemplating telling me the real reason.
“There was a time when she wasn’t afraid of anything, but then something happened that changed her. I thought time might help her heal.”
My eyes linger on his, trying to hang onto this gentle side of him that I’ve never seen.
Emotion is laced into every word, as if this is personal.
I see it in the way his features soften when he’s talking about her, as if they have some connection despite the physical distance that’s been between them.
There’s something else there, too, in the way he stares at the mare.
Colson slips his hands into his pockets. “I’ve tried to get her out enough to start working with her, but she won’t let me near her. So most of the time, she wanders the pastures. She’s at peace out there.”
“Does she have a name?”
His eyes don’t stray from her. “Cosmos.”
My eyes flit from Cosmos to Colson. “What if I tried?”
His head whips toward me, lines forming between his dark brows.
“I’ve worked with horses before, whenever my dad would bring a new one home or if he had clients who needed help with theirs.
” I stifle a laugh. “When I finally became more mobile after my leg healed, but still couldn’t ride bulls yet, I got in a ring with our horses as soon as I could.
Building that trust and training them were among the easier physical things I could do.
Plus, it doesn’t hurt to try, and I’ll get bored around here if I have nothing to do.
I have to repay you for coaching me somehow.
If you’ll let me, I’d love to work with Cosmos. ”
He regards me with an expression I can’t place. “Alright. You’ve already made more progress than I have.”
“Who takes care of them and the cattle while you’re competing? This is a lot to take on by yourself.”
His head slants, watching the mare pace back and forth. “I do most of the work in the winter, but have a few people who take over on the weekends when I’m gone. In the summer, I have a team that works for me full-time.”
I nod as his focus drops to the container I’m holding.
He wants to ask, but he doesn’t, so I hold it out to him. “This is another hobby I picked up. My mom used baking to distract me and keep me busy while I was in a wheelchair, and then the first month when I was finally back on my feet with crutches.”
The smooth expanse of his throat moves. His jaw tenses before he grabs the container and opens the lid, staring down at the lemon-blueberry crumble muffins.
This was a recipe I perfected.
His disbelief is almost humorous. “You made me muffins?”
“Apology muffins,” I add. His gaze roams over my face, my skin heating in his wake.
“I felt bad about suggesting that we go on acting like we completely hate each other. I put two and two together when I kept wondering why you said those things to me before our first round in Tacoma. You were more aggressive than usual, and I took it as a hint.” I mean, it took me a while to figure out he was pissed at me, but I eventually came to the realization.
“You’re doing a lot for me, coaching and all, and I wanted to show my appreciation in some way. ”
He exhales. “Well, if we’re exchanging apologies, I’m sorry for what I said. Not just this last weekend, but two years ago when you punched me in the face at the bar.”
His apology slams straight into my chest. Honestly, I figured he would never say sorry for that. He was firm in his feelings, and there was no convincing him otherwise.
“I was drunk and crossed the line.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and I track the movement with the laser focus of an owl observing its prey creeping through the dark.
He catches me, and I don’t miss the way his eyes drop to my mouth.
“If you haven’t noticed already, you drive me crazy, Harlow Hartt. ”
My response is instant. “Well, you’re the cause of my crazy, Colson Payne.”
His mouth quirks.
The crunch of gravel below tires grows louder, and I glance at the open entrance of the stable. I may be interested in who’s arrived, but Colson isn’t. His attention doesn’t waver from me.
I point toward the crack in the stable doors. “Who’s that?”
“Hank Matthews, a local contractor who owed me a favor. Figured the quickest way to get you moving up the rankings and block out your fear is to practice on the real thing.” I study Colson hesitantly, hoping he’s saying what I think he is. “Want to train on a few bulls today?”