Page 7

The mare wandered over to the rail near Delaney. She held still, letting the animal sniff her hand. Soft whiskers brushed her palm. Warm breath. The simple contact steadied an anxious tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

“She’s beautiful,” Delaney murmured.

“Wren. A mustang we pulled from a bad situation up near the border. Still figuring out she doesn’t have to fight everything anymore.” Claire’s voice softened fractionally when she spoke about the horse. It made Delaney wonder what it would sound like if that softness ever got directed at a person.

She straightened before the thought could dig in deeper. “I won’t keep you. Six tomorrow, right? Should I meet you at the barn?”

“Here in the round pen’s fine.”

Claire gave a single nod.

With that she turned back to Wren, dismissing her as easily as if she’d been any delivery person dropping off supplies. Delaney stood there a moment longer, watching the easy way Claire moved.

The walk back to the SUV felt different. Her steps crunched louder on the gravel. The mountains looked less intimidating now, more like a backdrop she might actually get to know. She hauled her suitcase from the back, the wheels useless on this terrain, and started toward the side of the house where a mudroom door stood open.

Inside smelled like coffee and woodsmoke. The kitchen opened up beyond it with farmhouse table and a window over the sink with a perfect view of the barn. Delaney could see Claire and Wren from here if she craned her neck. She didn’t. Instead she left her sneakers by the door next to a pair of scuffed work boots that looked like they’d walked a thousand miles.

The stairs creaked under her socks as she carried her bag up. Narrow hallway. Two doors facing each other. She pushed open the one that stood ajar and found a simple guest room with a quilt-covered bed and a window facing the creek. No television. No city lights visible from here. Just mountains and trees and the sound of water running.

She sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress gave under her weight. For the first time since leaving Los Angeles, the pressure in her chest eased. Not gone, but quieter.

Rebecca had done this. Called in whatever favor she’d held over Claire Lange for twenty years and made the impossible happen. Delaney still didn’t know the details. Just that Claire had once done stunts, that Rebecca had managed her, and that whatever friendship still existed between them had produced this ranch at exactly the moment Delaney needed it.

4

Directly over the ceiling light, the pine floorboards gave a familiar, dry groan. Claire kept her hands wrapped around her mug. The chill creeping under the mudroom door reached straight through her wool socks into the left knee she had wrecked on a camera truck jump in Burbank twenty-three years back. Some mornings the joint just stiffened up. Today it made the whole kitchen feel cramped and stripped of privacy.

Her house was supposed to stay hers. That was the one line she drew with Rebecca on the phone six weeks ago. She’d take the film crew, coordinate the horses, but the main house was off limits.

Then Rebecca had used that same low, reasonable tone she always used when backing someone into a corner. Telling Claire it made no sense to put the lead actress in a house miles away when she would be taking riding lessons every day.

Now Delaney Ellis was moving around upstairs, getting ready for her first lesson.

Claire set the mug on the counter hard enough to rattle the spoon in the sink. She didn’t want a Hollywood actress sleeping in her guest room. She didn’t want to smell expensive vanilla shampoo in her hallway. She shoved her arms into her canvas work jacket, the lining smelling of pine smoke, leather, and dry dust, a familiar shield against the morning chill.

She didn’t wait to watch Delaney come down the hall. She pushed the screen door open and stepped out into the yard, letting the spring snap it shut behind her.

The air outside was raw and damp, fog settling heavy over the pasture grass as it drifted down off the Larkspur Range.

Inside the main barn, the lantern hung from an overhead beam, casting a circle of yellow light across the dirt and wood shavings in the aisle. Maple was already standing in the cross-ties, her ears flipping forward at the sound of Claire’s approach. The chestnut mare was sixteen, thick-waisted and calm, the kind of horse that didn’t waste time or temper on things that didn’t matter.

Claire had already brushed her down, smoothed the wool pad over her back, and pulled the cinch snug on the working saddle. The leather creaked in the silence.

She unclipped the lead rope, led Maple out of the barn, and walked her the short distance to the round pen. The mare’s hooves left dark prints in the frost-covered grass. Claire opened the gate, sent her in with a quiet word, latched it again, and returned to the barn alone. By the time she hung the lead rope on its hook, the crunch of gravel announced Delaney’s arrival at six sharp. Punctual, at least.

Delaney walked into the lantern light, holding her arms wrapped tight around her chest. She was wearing a thin knit cardigan that wouldn’t stop a breeze, let alone the cold mist soaking through the valley. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose wave, strands already escaping to brush against her pale throat. On her feet were those same thin white canvas sneakers, already grayed with dew from the yard grass.

“Morning,” Delaney said. Her voice came out raspy, lower and rougher than it had sounded on the porch yesterday afternoon.

Claire looked straight down at the white canvas sneakers, already dark at the toes from the wet grass. Of course the girl had walked out here in those.

“Those won’t last ten minutes in the stirrups.”

Delaney stopped, confused. “What?”

“I’ll bring you a pair of boots.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned into the tack room, grabbed the old Ariats from the bottom shelf and a rolled pair of spare wool socks from her locker. The boots were scuffed brown rough-out, still soft at the ankles, sitting unused since she outgrew the heel ten years ago.