Chapter 23
The paddock gate swung shut behind Jewel with its familiar creak, and Sundancer lifted her head from the grass, ears pricked, already heading toward her with the unhurried confidence of a horse that knew its person.
Cookie Monster looked up briefly from his own grazing, decided she wasn’t interesting enough to interrupt his afternoon snack for, and went back to the grass.
Jewel placed her hand on the mare’s neck and stood silently with her for a while in the warm afternoon. They did nothing in particular, just stood there. The light was that low, golden, late afternoon glow that the Adirondacks could do better than anywhere else she’d ever been.
She realized she’d been standing in one place and simply observing all day.
The kitchen window, the back deck, the trail she had ridden a hundred times between the house and the lodge.
Taking everything in with focused, deliberate attention, imprinting it into her memory one last time, and trying to store each moment properly.
This morning, right after talking to Sophie, she stripped and laundered her bed linens without overthinking it.
She folded them and stored them in the closet.
Then she moved through her long-time guest room, taking only what was hers and leaving nothing behind that would make her return.
Finally, with one last look, she closed the door and carried her bags to the Audi in two trips, not stopping to look at anything.
So now the car was packed, sitting in the barn’s driveway on the other side of the fence, with her bags and Sundancer’s saddle peeking over the back seat, waiting for her to drive off. She wasn’t looking at it.
She was looking at Sundancer.
She leaned her head against her flank. “This is where it starts to get really hard. I don’t know how to do this part.”
The mare’s ear swiveled toward her voice.
Slowly, she ran her hand along her horse’s neck, feeling the warmth of her coat in the afternoon sun, and felt her heart breaking. “I’ve done hard things before. I know how to do hard things. This shouldn’t be harder than anything else I’ve done.”
Sundancer turned her head, regarding her with one large, entirely compassionate eye.
She pressed her forehead more deeply against her neck. She stayed there for a moment with her eyes closed, surrounded by the smell of horse and autumn grass, feeling the unbearable sweetness of having to leave something she loved with all her heart behind.
Her thoughts drifted to Beckett, but she had to stop thinking about him almost immediately.
That was the one emotion she couldn’t face directly.
Not yet. This morning, she’d said goodbye to him at Susan’s, held him a little longer than usual when he hugged her, breathed him in, and felt his small arms around her neck, hugging her with the fierce trust of a child who had no idea it was her last hug.
It was a memory she would carry for a very long time.
Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she straightened up and told herself that it was enough now. Enough of the whining and feeling sorry for herself. She needed to stay strong.
And then she heard hooves on the trail and turned to watch.
Cole came around the bend at a walk, Phantom moving beneath him with his long, ground-covering stride.
The afternoon light hit them both at once, and she felt a pang move through her that she had no defense against. Over the past weeks, she’d thought she’d gotten better at seeing him and managing what it did to her.
But right now, standing at the paddock fence and watching him ride in, she realized that she hadn’t gotten better at it at all.
She’d just been managing it, every day, and now that she knew she was leaving, she’d stopped managing, and there it was.
The first time she saw him, he was also riding Phantom. She was new, confused, and still shaken from what Rebecca and her friends had done. He rode into her view, and she thought, with the helpless clarity of someone unprepared, Oh my God, no.
She was thinking that again now.
He was still the most unfairly, unreasonably handsome man she had seen near.
It wasn’t something she’d ever quite gotten used to, and she wasn’t going to pretend she had.
The way he sat a horse, the breadth of his shoulders under his open jacket, his sandy hair pushing out from under the brim of his hat, and the quality of his presence that filled whatever space he occupied without seeming to try.
And it didn’t help that the late afternoon light was doing unconscionable things to the angles of his face.
Throughout the day, she’d rehearsed her speech countless times, but her heart was a problem she hadn’t counted on.
His eyes found her immediately. They always did. She’d spent months not examining what that meant, and she wasn’t going to start now.
Then his gaze moved past her to the Audi in the driveway.
She watched his face, observing how he absorbed the sight of the packed car, the bags visible through the rear window, and Sundancer’s saddle resting against the seat.
She saw a flicker pass through his expression before it settled into a quiet stillness that revealed nothing and everything all at once.
He never said a word.
He rode Phantom into the barn, and she followed outside the fence, her hands in her pockets, her heart fluttering in a way she’d told it not to.
He dismounted with relaxed grace, tied Phantom, and ran a hand along the horse’s neck.
Then he turned, leaning against the stall across the aisle with his arms crossed, watching her through the open barn door.
Waiting.
She looked into his blue eyes, which were steady, patient, and giving nothing away—no hints, no resistance, just that quiet, open attention that had been her downfall from the very beginning.
She wanted, with a desperation that surprised her with its intensity, for him to say something.
Anything. She longed for him to make this harder in a different way, to give her something to push against. To argue with her, ask her questions, or simply say her name.
Say something that showed she wasn’t standing here alone at this moment.
Say anything that proved she mattered to him.
He didn’t.
So, she forced herself to begin. “I’m leaving today. The investigation is done, and everything is resolved, and I think it’s time.” Her voice came out even, steady. She was professionally good at keeping her voice calm.
He nodded. Once, slow, as if she’d only confirmed something he already knew.
She pressed on because stopping would only make things worse.
Her words felt insufficient, but she said them anyway.
“You and Beck will be fine. You were fine before I arrived, and you’ll be fine after I leave.
Susan is stronger now. Conrad is just a phone call away.
And Beck—” This time, her voice cracked slightly, just for a moment, but she quickly recovered.
“Beck is extraordinary. The most extraordinary little boy I’ve ever known.
And that’s all because of you. That’s what you’ve given him. ”
Something in his face moved. It was so brief she almost missed it. But he still said nothing.
She looked at him directly because she felt she owed him at least that much. “I want to leave while things are good. While everything between us is okay. I want it to stay good. I want to remember it this way. I think that’s the right thing to do.”
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded again.
She felt that second nod in a place she hadn’t realized could hurt so much.
All the mornings in his kitchen, the rides on his trails, the evenings at the paddock fence watching the horses in the dark, that morning at the hospital when he’d said something she’d been carrying ever since—like it was too fragile to put down.
All of it seemed worth more than a nod. Two nods.
As if she were a trail guest checking out.
She swallowed hard. She absolutely refused to cry in his barn.
She turned to look at Sundancer, who had moved to the paddock fence closest to the barn door and was watching them both with her quiet, perceptive attention. She placed her hand against the mare’s nose one last time and held it there.
“Please keep her safe until I can come back for her.” Her voice was almost entirely steady now. She dropped her hand and turned away from the barn door. Toward the Audi. Toward the road south and whatever came after that.
He was in front of her before she’d taken two steps.
Not blocking her, not grabbing, and not acting aggressively or dramatically.
He was simply there—between her and her car, solid and still—and looked at her with an expression she had never seen on his face in all the months she had known him.
Completely unguarded, setting aside every careful mask he usually wore, and just looked at her.
“No.” It was the first word he’d spoken since he’d ridden in.
She blinked. “What?”
“No.” The second time he said it was just as quiet, just as certain.
She shook her head, not understanding, or not letting herself understand. “Cole, I’m just asking you to keep my horse safe. After everything we’ve been through—”
“I’m not talking about Sundancer.”
She went still.
He took one step toward her, and she felt the air between them charge in a way that had nothing to do with the number of feet separating them.
“I’m saying no to you leaving. I should’ve said it the moment you said you were going.
I’ve been standing here trying to figure out the right way to say it, and there isn’t one, so I’m just going to say it. ”
She opened her mouth.
“Let me finish.” It didn’t come out sharp. Just steady. It was the voice he used when he meant something completely. “Please.” He looked at her for a moment, as if gathering something out of his soul that had been hidden for a long time. “I love you.”
The paddock. The horses. The blazing trees. All of it suddenly went very quiet.