Page 11 of Wilder

He probably thought I was nuts already getting attached to a horse when I barely had a few months under my belt. “Ah.”

Actually, maybe I kind of was.

My face felt hot as I grabbed onto Laken’s arm and hauled him with me. “See you later!”

Refusing to turn back around to see whatever expression was crossing over Wilder’s face now, I kept a tight grip on Laken’s arm as I marched us back to the paddock.

Tonight really couldn’t come soon enough.

CHAPTER 4

Wilder

Leaning my arms over the rail of the back paddock’s fence, I folded them on top of one another and let my weight sink into the frame. It creaked slightly, old and worn from the rain and cold weather making the pickets a little more brittle each year.

Replacing it would be a pain but one long overdue, like many things that were out this way.

A job for another day, though.

Part of the problem with having a property as big as this one was that not many people found their way out toward the back of it. There wasn’t much point when we had closer paddocks near the stables, easier access to the main pasture, or the indoor riding arena, for whatever we needed.

Especially to train.

Rain or shine, that building had everything a rider could ask for—space for plenty of horses to run it at a time, soft footing, and controlled conditions. It was as efficient as it was practical, and one of the many reasons my father decided to invest in building it in the first place.

A costly upfront purchase that had more than doubled its value within the first five years of us owning it. He’d never been the type to waste money on frivolous things trying to make this property some kind of lavish vacation spot.

Our investment was in the horses and their care, not making this a place for the rich and privileged to come around for a long weekend and check horse riding and ranch life off on their bucket list.

Texas had plenty of dude ranches in business for that very reason and we weren’t one of them.

Distant footfalls of hooves pounding against hard ground dragged my gaze across the paddock until I spotted the faint outline of a rider and their horse figure-eighting around a few oddly shaped structures. Hard to see in the dense fog this early in the morning but unmistakable, nonetheless.

The morning out here was quiet this early, soft and peaceful before the sun broke past the horizon and woke the birds and chickens up for the day. Orange was just beginning to bleed into dark midnight when I’d left my home and started up toward the stables for morning chores.

Finding one of the stalls open and empty had me stopping dead in my tracks until I remembered which filly was usually in it. That had turned me right around and driven me into coming up this way, already knowing what I’d find even without seeing it first.

Front hooves skidded against the dirt while taking a sharp turn around one of the structures on the left hand side of the paddock, both rider and horse lowering just enough to make the turn and keep their weight distributed properly. A loud huff of air expelled out of flared nostrils right before an explosion of speed had them racing back to the other side to take the next one.

Around and around they went, weaving seamlessly through the makeshift course in perfectly synchronized motion; locked in a tight rhythm.

“Atta girl,” Asher called.

Affection bloomed in my chest. Settled deep in a place I didn’t often acknowledge.

I exhaled slowly, watching as the warmth of my breath clouded the air in front of me, mingling with the low-hanging fog that still clung stubbornly in the cooler air. The sun was just beginning to burn through it, casting long beams of light along the ground leading up the path.

Realistically, I should be calling him in.

Should be telling him to get back to the stables and start clearing out the troughs before I filled them with fresh feed. Or having him begin letting the horses out to pasture so we could get a head start on cleaning out the stalls before Dallas and Ryder made their way down from the bunkhouse.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stayed put, arms crossed over the top rail of the fence, my boots planted firmly in the dirt as I watched them take another turn. There was something about watching a good rider and their horse move together—something that made it damn near impossible to look away from no matter how much my inner clock nagged at me, reminding me of the work piling up.

He’d turned her into a damn fine horse. Gave her the confidence to be comfortable getting saddled up and ridden without flinching away from every wandering hand that happened to pass over her hindquarters.

He didn’t rush her, didn’t break her. Just got down to her level and met her where she needed; as he did with every tough case we gotten since he’d been hired. Nine weeks was all it took to get her out here racing around barrels like she’d been bred for competition.