13. Georgina
— ? —
Georgina
Three days since Max moved into the hayloft, and I’ve developed an inconvenient awareness of where he is at any given moment.
I’m walking the east pasture fence with my notebook, checking which posts need replacing before winter.
It’s work I should have done weeks ago, but the estate manager’s estimate seemed high, and I wanted to see the damage for myself before approving the expense.
The late afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders, and the hills roll away toward the coast in shades of gold and green.
This is my land. My father used to insist on checking repairs himself.
Apparently I’ve inherited that along with the house and his refusal to throw away a perfectly good notebook just because the cover has come off.
Every time I hear sounds from the stable yard, I lose my count and have to start the section over.
I make a note about a post that’s rotting at the base and move on to the next one.
From here, I can see the stable roof and the edge of the courtyard.
Max is somewhere down there, doing whatever Deus has assigned him today.
I resent how quickly my attention goes to him when I have come out here to get something done.
The next post is solid. I mark it in my notebook and keep walking.
When I finish the east section, I have a list of twelve posts that need work, which matches the estate manager’s assessment more closely than I’d like to admit.
I could have saved myself an hour by trusting his judgment.
But the walk was good, and the fresh air has cleared some of the restlessness that’s been sitting in my chest since I woke up.
I take the long way back to the house, circling around the paddock where two of the younger horses are grazing.
They lift their heads as I pass, ears pricked forward, then return to their grass when they realize I’m not bringing anything interesting.
I’ve always liked the uncomplicated nature of horses.
They want food and water and company. These two have already dismissed me in favor of something edible, which is sensible of them.
The stable yard is quiet when I reach it, the horses still out before their evening feed. I’m heading toward the house when I hear voices from the tack room, low and conversational. Deus and Max, discussing something I can’t quite make out.
I should keep walking. I have correspondence to finish and the fence estimate to review. But my feet slow as I pass the tack room door, and I catch a fragment of the conversation.
“Would you use the lower paddock tomorrow?” Max stands beside the workbench with a bridle in his hands. Through the open door, I can see him looking at Deus. “For those two?”
“That’s Georgie’s call.” Deus glances toward the paddock where I’ve just left the two young horses. “The drainage down there was questionable after the last rain. She’ll know whether the ground’s dried out enough.”
I turn back and step into the doorway. Both men look up, and I see Max register my presence with something that might be relief or might be caution. It’s hard to tell with him lately.
“The lower paddock is fine.” I lean against the frame, keeping my distance. “I walked it yesterday. The wet patch near the gate has dried. Leave the far corner fenced off until the ground firms up, though.”
“I’ll leave that section closed.” Max hangs the bridle over his wrist, his attention still on me. “Would you like Sovrano out there too?”
“Keep him in the paddock by his window for now. He’s settled there.” I know his turnout routine, his feed, which groom brings him in. I can make these decisions perfectly well while still standing at his door with my hands kept to myself, and I wish the two things didn’t feel so far apart.
“All right.” Max reaches for the cloth on the bench. I wait for him to suggest something better, then realize he has already accepted my answer. That should be too ordinary to notice.
Deus clears his throat and stands up from the bench where he’s been sorting spare fittings.
“I’m going to check on that delivery from the feed supplier.
They were supposed to arrive an hour ago.
” He gathers the fittings into a tin and walks past me toward the yard.
I stay where I am, although there is plenty of room to follow him.
The tack room feels smaller with just the two of us in it. Max sits on the bench by the window and spreads the bridle across his lap, working saddle soap into the leather. I recognize the brass fittings before I recognize the leather itself.
“That was my father’s.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I haven’t touched it since he died.”
Max looks down at the bridle, then back at me. “Deus pointed me toward the tack that needed cleaning. I didn’t realize it was sentimental.”
“It’s not fit for riding anymore.” I move closer despite myself, looking at the cracked leather he’s been working on. “The reins are too stiff. Even with the soap, they won’t be safe.”
“I know.” He sets down the cloth. “I’m cleaning it for storage. So the leather doesn’t deteriorate any further.”
I look at the careful work he’s done, the way he’s treated the old bridle with respect rather than trying to restore it to something it can’t be anymore. My father would have appreciated that. He hated seeing good tack neglected, even tack that had outlived its usefulness.
“I think I’ll keep it in the study.” I reach past him to touch one of the brass fittings. “There’s a hook beside Father’s old coat. It might as well be there where I can see it.”
“I’ll leave it here for you when it’s ready.” Max shifts the bridle so the buckle doesn’t scratch the bench. Our hands are briefly close enough that I can see the pale mark of soap beside his wedding ring.
I could leave him to it. I’ve answered the question about the paddock, and the notebook under my arm still needs taking upstairs.
Instead, I find myself watching a drop of water slide along his wrist toward his rolled sleeve.
It is an absurd thing to notice when we have lawyers writing to each other.
I lean against the workbench, leaving the space between his knees empty.
“You didn’t have trouble finding things to do in Umbria.” The words come out before I’ve fully formed the thought. “All those months. Now you’re here indefinitely, cleaning tack and checking drainage. When do you expect to go back?”
Max sets down the bridle and meets my eyes. “The head groom can manage the yard. I spoke to him before I left, and he’s capable of handling…”
“I know he’s capable.” I cut him off, sharper than I intended. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking how long you plan to stay before the next thing requires your attention. Before you have to leave for a week that turns into a month, and I’m back to listening for sounds in an empty yard.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can see him weighing his words. “I don’t have a return date.”
“That’s not an answer.” I look down at the notebook still tucked beneath my arm. It is easier than letting him see how much I want one.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognize from years of watching him think through difficult problems. “I want to say I’ll stay as long as you let me. But you’ve heard me make promises before.”
The honesty catches me off guard. I expected him to reassure me, to offer some version of forever that would sound good and mean nothing. Instead, he’s admitting that his word isn’t worth what it used to be.
“Tomorrow.” He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I can tell you about tomorrow. Deus asked me to help bring the horses in before the farrier comes. I can finish the boxes first. Once the farrier leaves, I’m available for whatever else needs doing.”
“I’m inspecting the east fence line with the estate manager tomorrow.” I open the notebook to the page I’ve just filled. “He sent an estimate for replacing the damaged posts. I want to walk it with him before I approve the work.”
“Would it help to have someone hold the other end of the tape measure?” Max looks at the notebook under my arm, then back at me. He doesn’t ask to see the estimate or offer to talk the man down.
I want to say no. I want to tell him I don’t need his help, that I’ve been managing this estate without him for weeks and I can continue to manage it.
I don’t need three people to look at a fence.
What I want is for him to walk beside me while I do something that matters to me, without steering me back toward the house when he thinks I’ve had enough.
It is such a small thing to be afraid of wanting.
“Eleven o’clock.” I shift the notebook into my hand and hold his gaze. “Meet us at the east gate. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.” He doesn’t smile, doesn’t treat this like a victory. Just accepts it for what it is: a small task, offered without promises attached.
We look at each other for a moment, and I feel the familiar pull of him, the way my body still remembers what it was like to be easy in his presence.
I can still remember standing between his knees while he cleaned tack, arguing about where we would have dinner while his free hand rested at my hip.
I used to reach for him without thinking.
Now I have to remind myself to keep my hands at my sides.
“The tape measure is in the shed by the lower barn.” I push away from the workbench. “The one with the red handle. The other one sticks.”
“Red handle. Got it.” His mouth quirks slightly. “Any other equipment preferences I should know about?”
“Our estate manager has worked here since my father’s time.” I tuck the notebook back under my arm. “He’s quite immune to charm. You should know that before you waste any.”
“I’ll stick to the tape measure, then.” Max picks up the cloth, watching to see whether I will smile.
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “See that you do.”