Jen stepped onto the block and swung her leg over. The saddle creaked beneath her weight, the memory of lessons for her sixteenth birthday slotting into place—heels down, reins gathered.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She shot him a small smile. “I am.”
He moved in close to check the cinch, fingers working the strap. His knuckles brushed her thigh—brief, impersonal, but she forced herself to keep breathing.
One last tug, then he stepped back.
Only then did he mount his own horse. One smooth motion, settling into the saddle as if he’d been born there. The bay shifted beneath him, eager, but Wyatt held him steady with just his knees and a light hand on the reins.
He glanced back at her. “Ember will take good care of you.”
“I’m good.”
He turned Bon Jovi toward the trees. The trail opened ahead of them—a white corridor between snow-heavy branches. The world was muffled, sound dampened to nothing but the jingle of the bit and the rhythmic crunch of hooves through powder. Their breath fogged in clouds that hung briefly before dissolving.
Wyatt rode ahead, just far enough to break trail. When the snow deepened, he slowed without looking back.
Jen followed, Ember moving with easy confidence beneath her, picking her way through the snow without hesitation. Thesway of the horse’s gait was soothing. Cold air burned her lungs clean. With each step, something tight inside her loosened.
Tomorrow, she’d have to talk. Give another statement. Remember things she wasn’t ready for.
But right now? She didn’t have to hold any of it alone.
Because he was here.
Wyatt glanced back regularly, checking she was still there before facing forward again. Each time her attention snagged, her body quietly keeping count.
They rode in silence for half an hour. Maybe longer. Time felt elastic out here, stretched thin by the quiet. The trail widened. Wyatt rode ahead again—then slowed until Ember’s stride matched Bon Jovi’s without comment. They rode parallel for a while, close enough that their stirrups almost touched when the horses drifted together. The way he sat in the saddle—loose and easy, as if the horse was part of him. No tension or forcing. Just quiet competence.
The cold crept in slowly, numbing her fingers first. She flexed them inside her gloves, not wanting to ask for anything.
Wyatt noticed anyway.
He reined in beside her without a word. Snow compacted softly under the horses’ hooves as they stopped.
“Hold still,” he said, already reaching.
He took her hands gently, thumbs pressing once at her palms. Then he peeled her gloves off and tucked them into his jacket pocket as if it was the most natural thing in the world. From his saddlebag he pulled his own—thicker, worn smooth at the seams—and slid them over her hands. His touch was precise, and when he finished, his fingers lingered at her wrist for half a second longer than necessary, adjusting the strap.
The thought came uninvited.
She wanted this to be the everyday.
To wake up warm, to ride into the quiet.
To reach for him and not flinch.
She wanted this man, and it scared her.
Because maybe this could work.
She could have this.
With him.
“Better?”
