Page 55 of The Fire Line

Harris checked Red’s cinch again.

“I watched Evan tighten that,” Jay said.

“Good for you.”

“He’s presumably qualified.”

“Mostly.”

“And yet here you are.”

Harris handed over the reins.

Jay mounted from the correct side without kicking Red and settled into the saddle. The stirrups fit exactly.

He looked down. “You remembered.”

Harris assessed the angle of his leg. “Wasn’t hard.”

“My proportions made a lasting impression.”

“Your bad stirrup length did.”

“Less romantic, but I’ll take it.”

Harris’s jaw moved as he checked the second leather, though neither required adjustment. “Hands.”

Jay loosened his grip.

“Knees.”

“I’m not gripping.”

“You will.”

“You realize you’ve made me coachable. This could have serious consequences for my reputation.”

“Try not to undo it before breakfast.”

Jay adjusted the camera harness across his chest. “No promises.”

Harris mounted in one clean movement. Jay looked away from the flex of his thighs and the fit of worn denim with the disciplined speed of a man who had learned absolutely nothing from recent events.

“Ready?” Harris asked.

“Professionally or spiritually?”

“To leave.”

“Then yes.”

They rode out before the ranch fully woke. The buildings disappeared behind the cottonwoods and then the first low ridge until the world narrowed to dry grass, timber, and the rhythmic movement of the horses beneath them.

For the first mile, Harris stayed slightly ahead. Red proved irritatingly competent, choosing his footing with the calm certainty of an animal who understood that the person on his back was largely decorative. When the road narrowed over loose stone, Jay’s knees tightened automatically.

Harris’s voice returned from the corral: Give him a direction. Let him handle the ground.

Jay forced his legs to loosen. Red immediately moved more easily beneath him, picking a path through the stones without Jay attempting to supervise each footfall.