"Her name’s Lark. Spirited, but steady. Reminds me of you."
The words sink into my skin. I glance away, but my pulse betrays me.
Marcel steps forward and offers his hand. I place mine in his, and there's a pause. A flicker. His grip is firm, fingers callousedbut gentle. When he helps me mount, his hand slides to the small of my back, lingering just a beat too long. My stomach twists, my skin wants more. I keep my eyes on the mare.
Once settled in the saddle, I glance down. He meets my eyes with that same genuine kindness laced with mischief.
"Ready?" he asks.
"As I’ll ever be."
He mounts his horse beside me, and we leave the yard. The trail stretches out before us in gentle curves and sunlit patches, slicing through fields of tall grass and groves of trees where the light flickers like secrets. We ride in silence at first, the sound of hoofbeats settling into a nearly meditative rhythm. I steal glances at him now and then, noticing how he moves with the horse as if they are one.
He begins to talk, his words coming easily, mirroring the rhythm of our horse’s hooves on the well-worn trail. He tells me about the ranch. The foal that came too soon, fragile but determined to live, and the storm last fall that nearly tore the west fence from the ground. He speaks of Ada and Frank, how they took him in when his parents died, when he was little more than a boy drowning in grief, and didn’t know where to place all the weight he carried.
When it’s my turn, I tell him I’ve always loved horses, how I used to ride with my uncle when I was a girl, the wind rushing past me like freedom itself. I confess that winters in Cheyenne are lonely, the city streets cold and gray, and that sometimes I long for the hush of trees rather than the constant hum of people.
He doesn’t pry or press with weighty questions. Instead, he lingers on the small things, wanting to know what I enjoy and what stirs happiness in me, as if those are the pieces that define who I am. It’s startling, almost disarming, to feel so clearly seen. And it feels good, achingly good.
The trail narrows at a bend in the creek, where water runs shallow and bright over smooth stones. Marcel swings down first, tying his horse loosely to a branch. Then he turns to me, his hand outstretched. I hesitate, not because I doubt him, but because I know what his touch will stir in me.
Still, I slip my hand into his. His grip is steady as he helps me down, his arm guiding me with a kind of care that leaves my pulse stumbling. When my feet find the earth, I don’t move away. Neither does he.
“You alright?” His voice is low. His eyes search mine like they’re searching for a place to rest.
I nod, brushing flecks of dust from my skirt with fingers that won’t quite steady. “I think I needed this,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. He only watches, his gaze heavy, “You look different out here,” he finally says.
“Different how?”
His eyes linger on me, “Like you’re not holding your breath. Like maybe—just for a moment—you remembered what it feels like to simply be yourself.”
The words take root deep in my chest, warm and dangerous, and I want to respond to him. But my tongue is weighed down by everything I can’t say.
Then, slowly, so slowly, I feel his fingers brush against my cheek. He tucks a strand of damp hair behind my ear, the intimacy of it far too tender for the hour. My breath stumbles.
I don’t move. The air between us tightens.
“Clara—” he breathes my name like a secret, like a prayer that shouldn’t be said aloud.
He looks at me, and the world falls away—no families, no promises carved by someone else’s hands. Just us, standing on the edge of something we aren’t supposed to want.
“Yes?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.” His voice cracks. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I fear he can see it. His features turn impossibly soft as he sighs. “You know what, it isn’t nothing. This afternoon is everything.”
I wrap my arms around myself to keep from reaching for him, from choosing something I have no right to choose.
“You’re dangerous when you talk like that,” I say, trying to sound stern. Instead, it comes out unsteady.
He takes one step closer.
“And you,” he says quietly, “are dangerous when you look at me like you don’t belong to anyone.”
He’s so close now I can see the flutter of his lashes, the catch in his throat, the way his eyes flick to my mouth and then back to my eyes. I can’t breathe.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, so softly it could be the wind. “But if I do…I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
