Naomi shook her head, a lingering smile on her lips as she headed up the trail. Maybe Jonah was right. Maybe there was healing to be found in chaos, in the simple absurdity of life continuing despite everything. And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to find it.
thirty-three
Coyote didn’t wantto take the turn. Ghost could feel the resistance building in the dapple-gray’s muscles, the subtle shift of weight that telegraphed rebellion seconds before it happened. He kept his signals clear, his body language precise—no room for negotiation or misunderstanding. The horse’s ears flicked back, testing boundaries the way he always did. Ghost tightened his calves, applying just enough pressure to remind the stallion who was in charge. For a suspended moment, they balanced on the knife edge of defiance, and then Coyote relented, pivoting through the turn with reluctant grace.
“That’s it,” Ghost murmured, the words more breath than sound. “Good boy.”
He guided the horse toward the next obstacle—a series of low jumps arranged in a pattern that demanded focus and control. Coyote had the athletic ability, but his mind was like quicksilver, slippery and unpredictable. One moment cooperative, the next challenging every cue. Ghost understood the impulse. They were kindred spirits that way, both of them conditioned to push back against restraint.
Coyote cleared the first two jumps cleanly, but hesitated before the third, tossing his head in protest. Ghost didn’t react tothe challenge, just maintained steady contact, his body speaking a language the horse understood better than words. Trust me. I won’t let you fail. They cleared the third jump together, horse and rider moving as one.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to last night. To Naomi’s body arching beneath his, her skin flushed and warm, her voice breaking as she called his name—his real name. Owen. Not Ghost. In those moments, he hadn’t felt like a ghost at all. He’d been achingly present, hyper-aware of every breath, every touch, every whispered word between them.
Coyote stumbled slightly, jerking Ghost back to the present. He tightened his core, rebalancing instantly. Focus. This horse needed every ounce of his attention. But even as he adjusted his position, his thoughts betrayed him, slipping back to the warmth of his bed, to Naomi’s scent on his sheets, to the way she’d looked at him in the darkness—not with fear or wariness, but with something dangerously close to tenderness.
Movement caught his eye—Cinder, darting across the paddock in a behavior so uncharacteristic that Ghost nearly pulled Coyote to a stop. The Belgian Sheepdog, normally vigilant and still as a shadow, was chasing a butterfly. Her movements were almost puppyish, bouncing through the grass with an exuberance he’d never seen from her. The butterfly fluttered just out of reach, and Cinder spun, her tail actually wagging as she pursued the insect in a zigzag pattern across the paddock.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his dog just... play. For no reason. With no purpose beyond the joy of movement.
When he finally spotted Naomi leaning against the fence, it felt inevitable, as if his thoughts had somehow conjured her into being. She wore his flannel shirt over a tank top, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her dark hair loose around hershoulders. The morning sun caught the silver fox pendant at her throat, sending a flash of light across the distance between them.
Something shifted in his chest, a tectonic movement that left him disoriented, like the ground had tilted beneath Coyote’s hooves. He knew this feeling, recognized it from a time before prison, before betrayal had hardened him into the man he was now. He’d buried it so deep he’d convinced himself it no longer existed within him.
Love.
He was in love with Naomi Lefthand.
The realization hit him with physical force, his breath catching, his hands momentarily losing their precision on the reins. Coyote sensed the change immediately, sidling nervously, and Ghost had to focus to steady him. The horse wasn’t the only one suddenly off-balance.
Terror followed close on love’s heels. To love someone was to give them power—power to hurt, to betray, to destroy. To love Naomi meant letting her see all of him, not just the carefully controlled version he showed the world. It meant opening doors he’d welded shut years ago, exposing the darkest corners of his past. It meant making himself vulnerable in ways that went against every survival instinct he’d honed since childhood.
And yet.
He guided Coyote toward the fence where she waited, his pulse beating hard against his ribs. The stallion moved with surprising willingness, as if he too were drawn to her.
“Morning,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
“Morning.” A smile touched her lips, small but genuine. “Jonah said I’d find you up here.”
Coyote stretched his neck toward her, nostrils flaring as he scented the air. Ghost kept the reins loose but ready, alert for any signs of the horse’s typical wariness around strangers.
“Should I be worried he’s going to bite me?” Naomi asked, not moving away but clearly noting Ghost’s vigilance.
“He’s thinking about it,” Ghost admitted. “But he probably won’t. He saves his worst behavior for me.”
That earned him a laugh, the sound warming something cold inside him. “You two seem well-matched then.”
“He has an attitude problem.”
“I never would have guessed.” Her eyes danced with humor, and God, she was beautiful like this—relaxed, unguarded, wearing his shirt like it belonged to her.
Cinder approached, still uncharacteristically animated, circling Naomi’s legs before darting away again, chasing another butterfly or possibly just the joy of movement itself.
Naomi watched the dog with obvious delight. “I’ve never seen her like this before.”
“Me neither,” Ghost admitted, his eyes tracking his dog’s playful movements. “She’s always been...” He searched for the right word.
“Serious?” Naomi suggested. “Like her person?”
