"You can still quit and walk away. You're not a Halloway. Remember that. ~Someone who cares"
The blood drains from my face as I stare at the words. What the heck? Who would send this? I double check the number. It’s not Brittney–unless she’s texting from a California area code.
Sarah notices my expression and leans forward. "What is it?"
I show her the screen. The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop ten degrees.
"Well," she says, her voice deadly quiet, "looks like someone's taking notice of you."
“Who do you think it is?” This feels different from Brittney’s mean girl tactics to get her hands on Wyatt. It’s more about what I do than who I’m seeing. Also, I doubt Brittney would ever claim to care about me. Great—now I have two stalkers.
Where Brittney’s text hit my tender spots, this one just ticks me off. Telling me I don't belong makes me more determined to prove that I do. I may not be a Halloway by blood, but I'm willing to fight like one.
Twenty-Four
TRY NOT TO FALL OFF THAT COLT WHEN YOU'RE BEING ALL SMOOTH AND ROMANTIC.
WYATT
The young colt prances in the round pen like he's got something to prove.
It’s been three days since Jackson Hole, three days of me and this horse figuring each other out the way it's supposed to be done.
"Easy, Bucky," I murmur, slipping into the pen with nothing but a halter and lead rope. "We're going to try something new."
The colt's ears flick forward, curious but cautious. When I reach out to touch his neck, he doesn't flinch. Progress.
My shoulder rolls smooth as I lift the halter, not even a twinge of the injury that's kept me home these past two weeks. The ride in Jackson Hole proved what Doc suspected—I'm healed up proper, ready to get back onthe road and chase Vegas. The thought should thrill me. Instead, all I can think about is the woman in the cottage, and how leaving her feels like sinning.
As I lead the colt toward the gate, I catch sight of the main house where Mom's been neck-deep in strategy sessions with Kinsley, planning political warfare.
Watching those two work together has been something to behold. Mom's found her match in Kinsley—someone who can think three moves ahead. Kinsley’s fighting for this place like it’s hers to lose, which somehow only makes me want her more.
"Wyatt!" Kit’s voice yanks me back from the drift of my thoughts as I lead the colt toward the barn. She closes Duke's stall door, a fresh layer of hay leaves dusting the front of her shirt. "You planning to stare at that horse all day or actually do something with him?"
"Patience, little sister," I call back, running my hand down the colt's neck as we walk. "Good things take time."
"Says the man who rides bulls for a living," she snorts, brushing off her shirt.
I tie the colt in the aisle and start gathering tack—saddle pad, saddle, bridle, but my mind's elsewhere, calculating what I need for tonight.
Two horses, a picnic, and enough courage to give her something that might keep me in her thoughts while I'm gone.
I grab Ace out of his stall and tie him near the colt.
"Why are you taking Ace?" Kit asks.
"I’m taking Kinsley for a ride." I disappear into the tack room and come back out with a brush and Ace's saddle.
"You're taking her riding…" Kit says slowly "…onAce." She's putting puzzle pieces together and I let her try to work it all out. Heck, I'm still trying to work it out myself.
"Yeah," I say simply, because there's no point denying what she's already figured out.
"Huh." Kit leans against the stall door, studying me with those eyes that miss nothing. "Must be serious if you're letting her ride Ace."
"Maybe it is." The admission comes easier than I expected, carrying less weight and more relief than I thought it would.
Kit's eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline, and for a moment she looks genuinely shocked. "Wow," she says finally, her voice softer than usual. "You're really falling for her."