The tree I’d chosen as a landmark for the end of our race loomed closer, its twisted branches stark against the sky. I was still a few horse-lengths behind Winston. I didn’t wonder for a second if I should let him win, if it would serve my purpose better. The game, the strategy, none of it mattered right now.
All that mattered was the rush, the wild, unfiltered joy of the race. Our horses were shoulder to shoulder when we reached the tree, scaring buzzards into flight amid bursts of reproachful croaks. We pulled back on the reins, slowing our horses to a halt. Their chests heaved, nostrils flaring as they tossed their heads, still charged with the thrill of the race.
“Who won?” he asked, taking his hat off and wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his blue shirt.
“Whoa, Blaze,” I said, patting her neck. She trotted in place nervously. She probably would’ve liked the race to be longer. I would have, too. “I couldn’t tell,” I replied, smiling at Winston. “I think we’ll need a rematch one of these days, if you’re up for it.”
He laughed—the kind of laughter that spills happiness into everything it touches. “Deal.”
We turned back, taking a different route and riding side by side, our horses moving in easy sync. The rush of the race faded into something quieter, more comfortable.
“So, did you always know you wanted to be an energy trailblazer?” I asked, giving him a teasing glance. “Oil, I guess, before solar?”
Winston chuckled. “Not exactly. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a pilot. I was obsessed with planes. My mom used to take me to theairfield just to watch them take off and land. I didn’t miss a single air show in the area.”
I nodded, storing the detail away. “And what changed?”
He exhaled, shifting in the saddle. “My grandfather. He was an engineer and an oilman, always talking about the future, about how the world needed more and more energy. He used to say we had to build something that outlasts us. Clean energy was his dream, way ahead of its time, when people thought him crazy.” His fingers grazed the reins absently. “I guess that dream stuck. With me, at least. My father was a die-hard oil man.”
I watched him for a moment, the way his voice dipped slightly when he talked about his grandfather, the quiet pride beneath his words.
“And you?” he asked, tilting his head toward me. “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
I smiled, keeping my answer light. “A magician.”
His brows lifted. “Really?”
“Well, technically, I just wanted to disappear.” I laughed, playing it off like a joke, but I was getting uneasy. “Seemed like a useful skill.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “And you did! Then you came back. Do you enjoy the Vegas you’ve found after being absent for a while?”
“I like that it’s always awake. There’s something about knowing you can get a steak at three in the morning that makes life feel a little less predictable.”
“That sounds suspiciously like someone who has actually done that.”
I smiled. “More than once.”
He laughed, the deep, easy sound rolling through the hot desert air.
I should have been playing a part, giving him just enough to keep him talking while revealing nothing about myself. But there was something about Winston, the way he listened, the way he didn’t push, that made it too easy to slip into something dangerously close to real.
Our conversation drifted between places we’d traveled, ridiculous foods we’d tried, even stretching to a heated debate over whether peanut butter belonged in milkshakes.
“It absolutely does,” he argued, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
I wrinkled my nose. “I’ll pass. I like my peanut butter on toast, like a normal person.”
He scoffed. “Says the woman who eats steak at three in the morning.”
I laughed, shaking my head. The rhythm of the ride, the warmth of the fading sun, the low timbre of his voice—it all blended into something easy, something I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Something I deeply enjoyed.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t playing a game.
We kept talking, our words weaving between the rhythm of the horses’ strides. Him, offering glimpses of his world, his past. Me, feeding him just enough to keep the conversation going, knowing most of what I said wasn’t real.
But the way I felt was starting to feel dangerously real.
