Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(98)
Television static pulses under my skin, and he’s hauling me into his lap, cradling my skull so our faces are close enough his exhalations become my inhalations. Our souls intertwined on his truck’s bench seat, Denver’s palm is warm on my chest, and it tugs at my heart and lungs like a marionette until the panic dissolves.
“Talk to me,” he mumbles against my cheek, sifting fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck.
And my biggest fear crashes down on us. “What if I end up like Mom?”
“Then we’ll take it in stride, like every other possible thing that might happen in our lifetime. Dying is inevitable, living isn’t. I want to live as much as I can with you, Bear.” His lips press delicate kisses to every freckle on my face. “No matter what happens in the future, I’ll be there.”
He’ll be there.
And so will I.
Blair
The air’s still and quiet for the first time all morning, thanks to the seven children under the age of ten who turned the clinic into a playground while I gave their sweet, tired mother a Pap test—and twenty minutes relaxing alone in my office with a coffee from the machine Denver bought.
Now my brain’s fried, and it’s not even ten o’clock. I wheel my desk chair over to the new mini-fridge again, grabbing an individually wrapped chocolate and pushing myself back to my desk. Popping the treat into my mouth, I stare at the X-ray results in front of me for a middle-aged patient who’s been complaining about hip pain. I’m trying to do my work, truly, but my eyes refuse to focus and my brain rejects any words I manage to read. So I glide back over to the fridge and try again.
Rolling my neck, I crack my knuckles and reach for my phone. Clearly work isn’t happening today, and I desperately need out of my head.
Blair: Hey, does that offer still stand for me to borrow a horse?
I toss the phone down on the desk and shuffle through papers, trying to look busy even though nobody’s here to notice. I could be sleeping at my desk and it wouldn’t matter. I glance at my phone, huffing over the fact that Denver hasn’t texted me back within two seconds of receiving my message. After our long conversation the morning after the wedding, he’s been even more adamant that I do some self-care, so I was expecting him to jump at this opportunity.
I’m swiping an obscene amount of chocolate wrappers into the trash can, silently cursing Denver for buying them, when my phone buzzes.
Denver: Always. Grab the buckskin in paddock six. I’m pretty far out, so I can’t join you, though.
Denver: Think you remember how to tack up?
Blair: Bet I can saddle a horse faster than you can
Denver: Loser gives a BJ
Blair: Sounds like a win for both of us either way
Shutting my laptop, I grab the light hoodie from the back of my chair and head out. It’s finally a slightly cooler day, but the sun’s shining. The perfect weather to clear my head somewhere on the back of a horse. Get a little taste of Blair Hart circa mid-2000s, before adult life stamped out my spirit. Now I’m back home, eager to pick up the fragments of my old self scattered around Wells Canyon like puzzle pieces. And I might finally be ready to let Denver help put me back together.
After a quick stop at home for a pair of jeans and my old boots, I’m flying up the mountain with the windows down and the playlist Denver made for me when we were kids blasting into the midsummer air.
* * *
—
“Buckskin in paddock six,” I mutter to myself, standing outside the barn and staring at pen after pen of horses. “Why do they need so many damn horses?”
I squint, counting away from the barn. Okay. No. There’s nothing but a sea of bay horses in the pen six away. Okay. Closest to the barn?
That really feels like the most ass-backward way they could possibly do it, but truthfully, I wouldn’t put it past them to number the paddocks in the dumbest way possible. I mean, clearly they didn’t do it the way any normal person would, or my first guess would’ve been correct.
There is a buckskin gelding in the pen closest to me, so I walk to the gate, halter swinging at my side. Given the way he saunters over immediately, this must be the horse Denver was talking about taking.
“Hey, bud,” I say softly, letting him greet me before opening the gate and walking in. “Wanna go for an adventure? It’s been a while, so go easy on me.”
I lead him over to the barn, get him ready, then take an embarrassing amount of time to find the right-sized saddle and get it on him. Thank God Denver isn’t here, because he’d never let me live this down. Odessa could probably beat me in a race.
“I forgot to ask Denver what your name is, but I can’t just call you ‘hey you’ all day…. I mean, I guess I could, but that feels ridiculous. So I’ll call you Sandy for today, okay?” I settle into the saddle, getting acquainted with the feeling and making sure Sandy feels good about it.
I might’ve been a bit spoiled with Chief. I could do anything I wanted with that horse—there was mutual trust and love. And I was double-spoiled, because I had Lucy Wells to show me the ropes and help train my horse. But Sandy is one of many horses in the remuda, and he’s likely only used to Denver.
So we start slowly, walking across the ranch to a trail I know well. One that switchbacks up the mountainside, leading to the upper hayfields. From there, it branches to the lake, the upper part of Timothy River, unending pasture, and beyond for infinity. If you head in the right direction, you can ride for days into the middle of nowhere. No roads, no signs of civilization.