Page 32 of Sunshine

“It’s what the reins connect to. It’s how you communicate with the horse while you’re riding. When you make subtle commands through the reins, the horse will feel it with this and know to adjust.”

I try to imagine what it would be like to be communicated with through some bizarre leather face mask. “It doesn’t hurt?”

He shakes his head. “Not if you know what you’re doing.”

“Promise?”

Wells looks at me for a long moment. And then he dips his head once. “I promise, Layla. You’re not going to hurt him, I’ll make sure of it.”

It eases my mind enough that, as soon as Champ is ready and inside of the closest corral, I don’t hesitate to climb up into his saddle. Wells gives me a boost, shooting me a small smirk as he looks at the Converse I’m wearing. “You’re going to ruin these out here, you know. If you’re going to learn to ride, you’ll need some decent shitkickers.”

I shrug. “They’re all I have.”

“Hm,” he hums as he takes a step back. “Put your feet in the stirrups.” He points at the wide loop that hangs alongside Champ’s belly. I do as he instructs and reach for the reins to ready myself for whatever comes next. “Wait.” He holds a hand up. “You don’t need those.”

I look down at the reins in my hands, at the contrast of the dark brown leather against my skin. They’re so worn with use that they’re softer than I expected. “I don’t?”

“Nope,” he confirms. His eyes trail across Champ’s back, as if taking in the size of the animal he’s just put me on. “The reins are only a part of how you communicate. A horse can feel a fly land on his back . . . he can feel everything that you feel. Every emotion, every fear. You want him to trust you just as much as you want to trust him, so you need to show him that you do.” He looks up at me, eyes squinting in the sun beneath that dirty backward hat. “No reins.”

“So what do I do?”

He smiles as he looks down at the dark boots on his feet. It’s a different smile from any others I’ve seen from him—it lacks the usual cockiness that he wears so well. When his face turns back up toward the sun, it strikes me how handsome he is. “Trust him, sunshine.”

I look down at Champ’s long neck, at his bright mane that lifts lazily with the breeze, and feel something warm bloom through me. I can’t explain it, but for as much as I was trying to get out of all of this only a few minutes ago, there’s a sudden feeling of rightness that this is all. . . inevitable. I nod, my gaze flitting back to Wells, realizing how much I trust him with this. “Okay.”

Wells gently takes the reins from my hands and clicks his tongue at Champ, and before I know it we’re moving. Champ’s shoulders shift beneath the front of the saddle as Wells leads us to the center of the corral. “Okay,” he says quietly, a whisper of that smile still playing on his lips. He reaches to wrap the reins once around the saddle’s pommel, and he glides his hand affectionately down the side of Champ’s belly before taking a step back from us. “It’s between you two now. Remember: he can feel what you’re feeling. Trust him.”

Champ must understand the invitation because as soon as the words leave Wells’s mouth, he takes off. The lurch forward takes me by surprise and I nearly fold backward at the waist, but I quickly recover and somehow keep my panic at bay. Champ eases into a slow trot, making his way toward the edge of the corral before shifting to the left to move alongside it.

“Relax, Layla,” Wells calls from where he stands. I sneak a look back at him and find his gaze sharp and focused. I take a deep breath and do what I can to lessen some of the tension inmy back and legs, knowing that I need to stay calm for this to work.

Trust him.

I close my eyes, letting instinct take over as my body sinks into each step Champ takes. I realize Idotrust him. I’m not scared. Even though it’s my first time being on a horse, I know Wells is watching me.I’m safe.

Champ picks up speed, not quite running but moving quicker as he hugs the fence line of the corral. I open my eyes again to see that we’re on the opposite end, effortlessly coasting along the perimeter.

I can’t help but look over my shoulder at Wells, noting the obvious approval in his eyes. It fills me up like a balloon, and I laugh.

“Something funny?” he calls out, the corners of his mouth rising higher.

“Not at all,” I say. In the span of only a few seconds, I feel like I understand the Bennetts better, why they do this: there’s a high in the inevitable submission . . . in trusting the horse. And it makes me wonder if it’s a similar feeling to earn their trust back.

The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway pulls me from the thought, and I look to find a black pickup truck moving up the long drive toward the house—Brooks’s truck. I watch as he parks next to Jason’s Mustang before opening his door and jumping out. Brooks is tall and muscular, the oldest and biggest of all the Bennett brothers. He wears a black T-shirt over dark jeans and black boots, a cowboy hat riding low over his brows. I can only see the bottom half of his face, but I swear he looks this way.

The passenger door opens too, and a small woman withcurly blonde hair steps down in white cowboy boots with bright red and pink flowers on them. They’recute—I could definitely be persuaded to wear shitkickers if they make them like that. She opens the back door and reaches in before pulling out a small child.

He looks to be only three or four, though his little body is nearly half the length of his mom’s. Brooks comes around from the other side with a car seat hanging from his hand, another boy of about six or seven at his side. It’s clear this is his family, though I had no idea he had one. I know he lives in his own house on the property—the biggest one aside from the main house—but I always assumed he lived in it alone.

Wells holds a hand up in greeting, and Brooks lifts his free hand back. Before Brooks can stop him, the oldest child kicks off into a sprint right toward us. “Uncle Wells!” he hollers, his feet furiously pounding against the scattered grass.

Wells chuckles out a warm and buoyant sound, jumping over the corral’s fence line and kneeling just as the boy barrels into his arms. He stands back to his full height with the boy tucked in his grip, straddling his waist from the side. “Hey, Liam,” he says, his expression full of a deep affection that catches me off guard. His eyes flash back to me, checking to make sure I’m still okay.

“Who’s that?” Liam asks, pointing a blue-markered finger my way.

Wells smiles wider. “That’s Layla. She’s my friend,” he says. And it feels like a lightning strike to the chest, how easily he claims it.

“Nice to meet you, Liam,” I say, grinning like a lunatic, I’m sure. The dynamics of the Bennett family intrigue me; I’ve never seen a family so big and full of life.

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