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“Yeah. Almost a year.” With a fierce, almost irritated sniffle, she rubs at her nose, taking in a shaky breath. “But, well, life happens.”
She’s suddenly matter-of-fact, shoving her feelings down, and she jerks her chin at the mare.
“That’s Plath,” she says and then rests her hand to the Vanner’s mane. “This is Frost.”
I grin. “Authors this time instead of novels? Sylvia Plath and Robert Frost?”
“Nice knowing you can read. He liked to change things up a little.”
She smiles back at me then.
Small and distant and careful, but damn, it’s there.
I’m glad she’s slinging barbs again.
The thump that shakes my whole chest tells me my stupid cock isn’t the only reason why I can’t seem to look away from her.
Plath gives me a good distraction, bumping my hand imperiously. I realize I’d stopped petting her, and I carefully trace my hand up Plath’s nose and jaw.
“Not ignoring you, girl,” I murmur, glancing at Libby. “So you think she’ll take me all right? I still remember how to ride. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“She should,” Libby says blandly. “Just in case, she’s the horse I usually give to beginners.” Her brows arch under the brim of the hat. “Usually when they’re in the five to seven-year-old range.”
I burst out a snort of laughter.
Shit, at least she keeps me on my toes.
I think I’ve still got a good feel for a horse, even if it’s been a long time and all the horsepower I’ve been handling has been under the hood.
I vault over the fence, and under Libby’s critical eye, give Plath’s reins and saddle a once-over.
Never let someone else prepare your tack without checking it yourself.
I make a minor adjustment to Plath’s girth strap before putting my foot in the stirrup and swinging myself up in the saddle.
Not gonna lie, I forgot just how high up a horse’s back is, and it’s a little dizzying.
I remember this.
The feeling of a horse, the solid movement of our bodies, the saddle keeping me balanced while the animal moves in swaying rhythm. Plath sidesteps a little before settling as she adjusts to my weight.
If I’m not wrong, I think there’s a little glint in Libby’s eyes that says she just might approve.
Though she doesn’t say one word, just takes up Frost’s reins and steers the Vanner away.
I lean over, unlooping Plath from the fence, and follow.
It takes me a few minutes to get back into the rhythm—to remember how to let myself move with the mare’s body instead of tensing up against her gait, and how to guide her with my knees and heels while going gentle on that bit in her soft mouth.
It’s like knowing how to ride a bike.
You never forget.
Before long, Libby and I are riding side by side, moving at a light walk that’ll let us cover ground pretty easy without lathering the horses in the morning heat, which is only getting worse.
Seasons in Heart’s Edge go to extremes. We get buried in snow in winter, tossed in red-gold bursts of leaves in autumn, lashed by storms in spring with gorgeous bursts of flowers.
And in summer?
We sweat half to death, worshiping the gods of air conditioning and oscillating fans.
I can already feel sweat trickling down my spine by the time we pass the barns, heading across the property.
Even with the heat, it’s nice out—and nicer with the company, the bright gorgeous sky, the smell of horseflesh and the feeling of settling back into this town like I belong.
Hell, maybe I really do.
And if I don’t yet, then maybe I could.
Even though I’ve seen the survey files, I never quite realized just how much land out here the Potters owned.
We’re not talking a few scrappy acres of farmstead.
It’s miles upon miles of space, most of it left to go to scrub brush out here, with only Libby to manage.
From the property lines I’ve seen, their acreage even extends into the mountains, though the maps made it look like that area was pretty much impassible, dead land—except for a single mountain pass carving a channel through it.
Depending on the final site for the mall, that pass might be our roadway.
Only one problem, I think, as I scan the land with an assessing eye.
We’d likely have to run straight through Libby’s ranch to get to that road, instead of skirting the edges of it.
Damn.
I’ll table that for later, though, knowing she’ll never buy it, and explore other options first.
“What’s the plan if you get to keep your ranch?” I ask her, breaking a silence between us that hasn’t been easy, but hasn’t been hard, either.
Her shoulders stiffen. They’re tanned to such a gorgeous shade of gold, gleaming beneath the sun. Her little white tan lines say she puts those tank tops to the test pretty damn often.
I catch myself following the lines of the tank strap down to where the neckline dips.
