Page 47 of Broken Cedar

“Christ, I hope not,” he says. Then we’re both laughing, and he presses a soft kiss to my lips.

Colt reluctantly slides out of bed and presses soft kisses to my mouth, and my jaw, as he reaches for his clothes. “I need to get to work,” he murmurs against my hair. “Before she notices.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. He quickly pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a shirt. He kisses me once more before closing the door quietly behind him. I wait until I can hear them both moving around downstairs before sliding out of Colt’s bed and tiptoeing back to my room, smiling to myself the entire time.

God, I can’t remember the last time I smiled like this. The smile stays. Even as I strip off and step into the shower. Even as the warm water runs over me and I find myself smiling for no reason at all. Even as I’m washing my hair and thinking, with a clarity that should terrify me, that I have never been happier than I am right now, in this shower, in this house, with the man I’ve been in love with since before I knew what the word meant.

The realization sobers me like cold water. I’m leaving. I have to keep remembering that. I have a whole life waiting for me back in the city. A career. Friends. A version of myself that exists independently of Colt Walker, of this ranch, of the particular gravitational pull of a place that has never stopped feeling like home no matter how many miles I put between us.

I turn off the water and quickly get dressed. I don’t dry my hair, just brush it back into a ponytail. When I head downstairs, I find Mom at the stove, spatula in hand and humming. Colt sits at the table and looks up when he hears me enter. Our eyes meet and he smiles into his coffee, quickly looking away.

“Morning, honey,” Mom says, scrambling her eggs. “Coffee’s fresh and I’ve got some eggs almost ready.”

“Thanks.” I say, pouring myself a mug before taking a seat at the table. I drink my coffee fast and it burns the roof of my mouth.

“Where you headed this morning?” I ask Colt, hoping it sounds casual, like I’m asking about the weather.

“South pasture,” Colt says. “Need to move the yearlings before it gets too hot.”

I’m already striding across the kitchen before I realize what I’m doing. “I’ll come with you.” The words come out like a decision, but the truth is I’d already made it before I said them.

Colt looks at me for a second, something unreadable passing across his face. Then he nods. “Sure.”

I feel Mom watching us, her eyes moving between Colt and me with a softness that makes my stomach drop. She’s smiling. The guilt lands like a fist. Hard. Sudden. Physical in a way I wasn’t prepared for. She thinks we’re just spending time together. Like before. Like when we were kids and were inseparable. She has no idea. No idea what’s happening behind her back.

I hope—God, I hope—she hasn’t gotten the idea into her head that I might stay. That this visit, this suspended week of whatever this is, might become something permanent. I can see it in the way Mom moves through the kitchen—lighter, quicker, humming to herself the way she used to. Everyone seems happier with me here. And I am, with a clarity that terrifies me, two days away from breaking all of their hearts for the second time.

I move to the sink to wash my mug. “Rain check on the eggs,” I say, grabbing a hat from the hook by the door. Colt senses my change in mood and grabs his hat too, and then we’re both rushing out the door.

We feed the horses first. Colt hauls grain from the storage shed while I fork hay into the feeders. The chestnut mare nickers the moment she spots me. I scratch the white star on her forehead and she leans into my hand, heavy with trust.

“She likes you,” Colt says. He’s pouring grain into buckets, watching us both.

“She likes anyone with apples.” I tease. Colt gives the ghost of a smile.

We move the yearlings next. Twenty young horses, none older than two. They’re in the east paddock and they need to go south, where the grass is thicker. Simple in theory. In practice, it’s anything but.

Colt starts explaining the plan, then stops halfway through. He realizes I already know. And I do. That’s the strange part. I remember how to anticipate which ones will be pushy. Which ones will need more space and which ones will need someone to stand close enough that they feel the boundary.

I remember because I grew up here. Because this place was once written into me so deeply I thought leaving meant I had erased it. Apparently, I was wrong.

Colt hands me a gate latch without asking and I take it without thinking. The movement is so automatic that I almost don’t notice it. Somewhere between opening gates, moving horses, and knowing exactly where to stand, something uncomfortable occurs to me. I haven’t asked Colt what needs doing all morning. I already know.

Colt opens the gate. I position myself at the rear of the herd, my arms out, making myself wide in the particular body language horses understand instinctively: I am a boundary. Move away from me.

The yearlings mill. A bay colt makes a break for the open gate. Colt doesn’t move, just shifts his weight and angles his body, and the colt veers, confused by the sudden absence of a clear path, before trotting back into the herd as though that had been his plan all along.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

Colt shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”

We start the herd moving again. Most of them fall into line. One little sorrel filly decides she’d rather investigate me. She walks straight over and noses at my shirt pocket.

“Don’t even think about it,” I tell her. She ignores me completely.

Colt is watching now, leaning casually against the open gate. “You got apples in there?”

“No.” The filly nudges me harder. “I said no.” She reaches higher, lips finding the brim of my hat instead. “Oh, come on—”