Page 32 of Broken Cedar

“Not you, buddy,” I say, rubbing his forehead. “You’ve earned your retirement. I’ll take the chestnut.”

The chestnut mare watches me with mild suspicion. She’s younger. Spirited. The kind of horse that requires attention. But she lets me saddle her without fuss, just like Colt promised she would.

He checks my cinch. His hands are quick, practiced. “You ready?” he asks when he’s satisfied I haven’t forgotten how to saddle a horse.

I swing myself up and gather the reins. “Ready,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

We ride east across the lower pasture, following the creek where it cuts a lazy silver ribbon through the sage. Colt leads, his bay gelding picking its way over the uneven ground with the confidence of a horse that knows every inch of the ranch. The chestnut beneath me is lighter on her feet, quicker to test me, tossing her head once as if to see whether I still remember what I’m doing. I tighten my grip on the reins. The mare immediately drifts toward a patch of long grass.

“Shorten your left rein,” Colt says, glancing back over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Left.”

I gather the rein another inch. The mare straightens almost at once, settling back onto the trail. He doesn’t smile or tell me I’d done it wrong. He simply faces forward again, as though correcting me were no more remarkable than pointing out a low branch.

The rhythm comes back slowly. My hips loosen. My hands stop thinking so hard about where they belong. By the time we reach the creek, my body has remembered things my mind had almost forgotten—the subtle shift of weight before a turn, the feel of the horse breathing beneath me, the quiet conversation carried through reins and knees more than words.

The first gate appears ahead of us. Colt swings easily from the saddle, landing with practiced ease. He works the latch one-handed while holding his reins in the other, then pushes the gate open wide enough for both horses. I ride through first. He follows, closing the gate behind us before climbing back into the saddle in one smooth movement that makes it look effortless.

“You’ve done that a few times,” I say.

“A few.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

The trail bends toward the creek, where the water chatters over smooth stones. Colt guides his gelding in first. The horse steps carefully into the current, water curling around its fetlocks before climbing the opposite bank. He doesn’t keep riding. Instead, he waits.

I urge the chestnut forward. She hesitates just long enough to make me question whether I’ve forgotten how to ask properly, then steps into the water. Halfway across, I notice Colt has moved slightly downstream. Not directly beside me, or ahead. Positioned where he’d reach us first if the mare lost her footing on the slick rocks. The realization settles quietly somewhere beneath my ribs.

The mare climbs the opposite bank without incident. Only then does Colt turn his horse back toward the trail. The land begins to rise as we leave the creek behind. New fencing stretches across the hillside where I remember weathered posts leaning at impossible angles.

“That’s new,” I say, nodding toward it.

“Replaced it last spring.”

“It looks expensive.”

“It was.” He says it without complaint, simply stating a fact.

“What happened to the old fence?”

“Snow came down hard two winters ago. Took half of it with it.”

I shift in the saddle and look farther across the valley. There’s another shed I don’t remember, its roof catching the morning light. “And that?”

“Hay storage.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I slow the chestnut to a walk, letting my eyes move across the valley. New water troughs. Fresh gates. Repaired creek banks reinforced with stone. Hundreds of small decisions made one season at a time.

“You’ve changed a lot.” Colt glances at me sideways. “The ranch, I mean.” I gesture around us.

“Figured.” He looks forward again, but the corner of his mouth moves.

I laugh and shake my head. “Yeah, I walked right into that one.”