If it ended tomorrow, she still wanted this day.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s ride.”
30
Jen tried notto notice Wyatt as he drove but couldn’t quite manage it.
The steady line of his hands on the wheel. His quiet focus. The way he didn’t fidget, or fill the silence. It made the space between them feel smaller.
Closer.
She looked away, fixing on the road instead, as the tires crunched over snow. Wyatt pulled up beside the stables and cut the engine.
Snow creaked underfoot as she climbed out of the car. The cold was sharp enough to bite her lungs, but she was warm in her new clothes. She didn’t want to think about how well he’d guessed her size—what that implied about how closely he’d paid attention.
A stable hand looked up from a stall. Wyatt lifted a hand in greeting, exchanged a few words she didn’t catch, then fell into step beside her as they followed a cleared path toward the stable doors.
Inside the barn, warmth wrapped around her. She drew in a breath—leather and the soft musk of horses. Dust motes driftedthrough slanted light. The razor edge of the cold dulled, and her breathing eased.
“This way.” He indicated the two stalls farthest from the stable door. A stocky bay and a smaller chestnut horse turned their heads at his approach. He stopped at the second stall and rested a hand between the mare’s ears.
“This is Ember,” he said. “She’s level-headed. Won’t rush you.”
Jen stepped closer, reached out to stroke the mare’s neck. Warm muscle under a soft coat. Ember turned her head slightly, dark eyes calm.
“You’ll take Ember, I’ll be on Bon Jovi over there.”
“Bon Jovi?”
His head dipped, and he scrubbed the back of his neck. A boyish grin lit his face. “Loved them as a kid.”
“Which song?”
“Livin’ on a Prayer.” He didn’t look remotely embarrassed. “Still holds up.”
“Oh, my God.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “The man who took down terrorists with his bare hands is a Bon Jovi fan.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The bay whinnied as if offering his own opinion.
“Sure.” She grinned back.
Wyatt saddled up the horses with care. He cinched the girth strap on Ember, then bridled her and led her outside to the mounting block. The bay followed on a lead.
From a hook beside the stable door, he lifted two hard hats. He settled one on his own head, then turned to her.
“Regulations,” he said, placing it gently on her head. His fingers found the chin strap, threading the buckle, adjusting the fit. The same careful hands that had fitted her harness on the side of the rig, but softer now. No urgency. No countdown.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
He tugged once, testing. His knuckles grazed her jaw, forcing her to concentrate on staying upright. “Good.” He collected Ember’s reins, one hand steady at her shoulder. “You remember how?”
“I think so.”
He didn’t comment. Just stayed close enough if she needed him.
