Page 90 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Yeah, well…” She became quiet. “Now you know.”

“I know you were good.”

“I was.”

“You were planning to go pro.”

Her hand stopped against Blueberry. I regretted saying it almost immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it crossed into territory she hadn’t invited me into.

“For a long time.” Carson stared toward the pasture. For a moment, she looked as if she was somewhere else entirely.

Not at the ranch.

Not at me.

Back five years.

“I thought I had time.”

Four words.

They landed harder than everything I’d watched the night before. I thought about my spare bedroom. The boxes. The land I’d eventually buy. The family I’d eventually have. The life I’d been assuming would wait patiently until I decided to start it.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think everybody does.”

Her eyes found mine and Blueberry nudged Carson’s shoulder, breaking whatever had settled between us.

“Come on.” Carson rubbed her nose. “The equipment barn’s this way.” She started walking with a slight limp I hadn’t paid much attention to before.

I pushed away from the fence.

Then stopped.

“Hey Carson.”

She turned, and I nodded toward Blueberry.

“Do you ever ride her anymore?”

The woman who had spent the last several minutes talking faster than I’d ever heard her speak disappeared behind the walls I’d become accustomed to. “No.”

I knew immediately not to ask why.

Carson turned toward the equipment barn. I followed a few steps behind. The doors were old enough that the paint had nearly disappeared. Carson wrapped both hands around one metal handle and pulled. It resisted.

I moved forward automatically.

But Carson planted one boot harder into the dirt and yanked again before I reached her.

The door groaned open. She didn’t look at me. I didn’t offer to help with the other one. Not because she couldn’t use it. Because I was beginning to understand that with Carson Rome, there was a difference between helping and taking something out of her hands.

I waited.

She opened the second door herself.

Dust floated through the sunlight pouring into the dark building. Two old hay wagons sat along the far wall. A tractor rested beneath a tarp. Strings of festival lights had been piled into plastic bins, their orange cords tangled together. Old wooden signs leaned against the wall.

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