Page 26 of Saddle Storm

The pony stops outright this time, ears flicking back, stomping in place stubbornly.

Jaw tightening, Silas exhales through his nose. But he doesn’t look at me again. The last time he did, Winter noticed—and apparently didn’t like it.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Straight.” Once he’s got her attention again, he pauses, shortens the rope, and steps closer. He watches her for a moment—as if deciding what she wants—then slowly pivots to guide her instead of drag. His steps become even and deliberate, matching Winter’s, as if letting her set her own pace.

The pony veers again and he corrects without pause. She stops and he does too. I know he’s not a lefty and I can see the stiffness in his shoulder. But he doesn’t quit.

My stomach fizzes for a moment until I remember who he is. Silas isn’t doing this just to talk to me. He’s always up for a good challenge. A game. A win.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually, Winter finally resigns and walks at his side in a somewhat straight line.

He stops at the end, barely loosening his grip on the rope and breathing hard. When he finally looks up, there’s a flash of something on his face that isn’t triumph exactly.

It’s relief.

Like an obstacle he had to overcome to get to what he wants.

And what he wants—at least right now—is to talk to me. The girl he left behind long before he even left town.

I walk over, my throat thick, my body tingling with the urge to go back on my promise, because I don’t trust myself not to break.

I avoid his eyes and focus, more than necessary, on tying Winter’s rope to the fence, my shoulder brushing his forearm as I do because he refuses to give me space.

“Ten minutes,” I mutter, then turn and step outside the gate.

10

I don’t remember the last time I worked this hard for something that shouldn’t matter. There isn’t anyone else—not my brothers, not even Dad, I wouldn’t have laughed off and headed the other way if they asked me to do what she did.

My wounded bicep throbs, even though I didn’t use it, or at least I tried not to. My pride’s a little bruised because I know that took more effort than it should’ve. And that misfit of a pony—Winter—should be called Winter Storm because I never knew which direction she’d go.

But somehow none of that feels like the point. I didn’t do it because she asked—I did it because for the last twenty-four hours, I’d gone through eleven scenarios of how that sentence she started ends. And I’m dying for a winner. If she still thinks I abandoned her. Or my family. Or if Tom ever came clean but she blames me anyway. Hell, it might not even be that deep. Maybe she thinks I’m the one who started the “horse girl” name-calling in high school. I wasn’t, for the record.

I meet her just outside the gate, close enough that the space I leave between us feels deliberate. I look down at her and almost lose the words I’ve replayed in my head—her words. Not because I forgot them, but because seeing her this close twists something in me. She doesn’t need confrontation right now. She looks like she could use a good night’s sleep.

And maybe to let down her guard a little. She’s tired, yes, but still solid, still strong as she grips the fence with a tight fist like she’s bracing for impact. Eyes focused on something just beyond the river. Sun-warmed freckles standing out against her skin. She’s unbreakable in a way I never fully appreciated.

“When your dad stopped coming to the ranch, you didn’t think that meant what?”

Frowning, she finally lifts her gaze to mine. “Huh?”

“That’s where you left off,” I say softly, but firmly. “That summer—when you and your dad didn’t come back, you didn’t think that meant . . .”

She swallows and shakes her head. “Silas . . .”

“I held up my end, Storm, and it wasn’t as easy as I made it look.”

She laughs. Her eyes drop to her boots for a second before meeting mine again. “I didn’t think the rift between your dad and mine meant the end of our friendship.”

I swallow hard. And of course, our winner is scenario number one.

“And fine, it’s not like I thought you’d show up at my door and ask me to help you pull off the next prank—we were too old for that. But it’s a damn coincidence that was the year you introduced me to your friends before I started high school. Almost like you were testing the waters.”

“What?”

She tosses her arms up in the air. “Well, it’s clear they didn’t like me.”

I frown. I actually don’t remember what they thought of her because I didn’t care. I liked her.